


It's More Than A Feeling

by keycchan



Category: Fallout 4
Genre: Alcohol, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Idiots Have Feelings, M/M, Skydiving
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-02
Updated: 2018-08-02
Packaged: 2019-01-07 23:39:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 22,487
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12242877
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/keycchan/pseuds/keycchan
Summary: Where Danse and MacCready don't necessarily see eye to eye on most things (read: Almost Everything), but they have to get along anyway. Yikes.





	1. turned on some music to start the day

Danse likes to think he trusts Haylen. Wholeheartedly and steadfastedly, Haylen has always been pragmatic, efficient, and a good friend to him. One of his bests, even, and Danse has always been appreciative of that. He’s had no regrets bringing her into the Brotherhood, and she’s grown into more than he’d ever expected, nurtured within the companionship and camaraderie it offers and eventually contributing more than her fair share of efforts. Danse isn’t afraid to think it. He  _knows_  Haylen is capable. Smart. And Danse knows where his loyalties lie, and knows that he’d put his life on the line for Haylen, anytime, always.

That being said, there  _are_  a few times where Danse finds Haylen’s choices to be a little... questionable.

And right now, surrounded by the stench of cigarette smoke and stale beer, with piercing blue eyes glaring daggers into Danse’s head and a half-empty glass of whiskey —

Danse is  _really_  starting to reconsider his trust in Haylen’s decisions.

“Whatever your pitch is, I’m not interested in joining your club.” The mercenary before him bites out, quick and irritated, eyes still pointedly on Danse even under the brim of his cap. “Now leave, your tin can is blocking out Magnolia.”

Danse thinks he has a vein throbbing in his temple from how hard he’s suppressing his frustration right now. It isn’t like he has much of a choice. He’s a paladin, a high rank of the Brotherhood, meant to be a shining example of Brotherhood brilliance, and losing his temper in a place like this... He’s better than that. So he takes a steady breath in, and then out, willing his anger quietly away. 

He just needs to make the offer. Just place it, and then back off. Then at least he can leave this... terrible cesspool excuse of a city, and go back to the Cambridge police station. Apologize to Haylen and Rhys for not getting this man on the mission, but explain that he can’t force anyone to join, and then he can relax and re-strategize another way around this.

Yeah. It sounds good.

“I’m not here to force you into the Brotherhood, I  _assure_  you.” Danse finally says, making himself talk slowly and clearly, making sure to put emphasis at the last bit. He makes eye contact with the merc, and holds it. “We are in need of assistance with a highly dangerous retrieval mission, and I cannot warrant putting the other members of my squad in danger right now. I have been informed that  _you_  are particularly skilled with that rifle.”

The mercenary frowns, when Danse shifts his eyes to the gun slung across his back, and then back at him. Narrows his gaze.  _Wary_ , like real wastelanders are. “So what’re you saying?”

Danse steadies his breathing.  _Calm. Just lay the offer out. Then you can leave as soon as he refuses_. “We —  _I_  would like to hire you.”

There. Done. Task fulfilled, laid out, plain and cleanly stated, with no room for misunderstanding. Danse settles back rigidly, feeling alarmingly too large in his power armour for this tiny, seedy backroom. Clasps his hands tightly at his sides and waits for the rejection.  _Eager_  for it, actually — it’s already night out in the Commonwealth, and while the wasteland becomes thrice as dangerous in the dark than it is in daylight hours, he’d rather risk it than stay the night in Goodneighbour. The faster this mercenary says  _no_  to his offer, the faster he can get back out on the road and travel back to Cambridge. Rhys was stable but still injured, last he saw, unable to walk right or shoot straight  — Haylen is on her own up there, and Danse is admittedly a little restless, worried about them and their safety. The site was secured when he left, but he’s learnt a long time ago not to get too comfortable with the idea and illusion of security.

He’s already planning his routes in his mind, jogging through the list of duties he’ll have to check up on back at the police station when the merc’s voice snaps him back to reality.

“250 caps. Non-negotiable.” The man says, voice cold but clear, Adam’s apple bobbing when he throws back and finishes the rest of his whiskey. Puts the glass down on the side table with a clink. “And a split on whatever loot we find.”

Danse’s brows raise. 250 caps is... startlingly  _less_  than what he’d estimated, when he entered Goodneighbour’s gates. Typically, contracts from hired guns around the wasteland can easily average out to over 300, and easily double that if they run with the Commonwealth’s Gunners. Danse is, well.  _Surprised_ , mostly. He’s heard of this man, his reputation, the solid fact that he was one of the Gunners’ best snipers. He’d already expected the man to put an offer at over 400 caps, easily, had even been willing to pony up as much for it.

Well. If they can cut back on expenses, then Danse doesn’t see why not. He’ll take it as a happy bonus. The mercenary doesn’t need to know any better.

“That seems fair.” Danse affirms, nodding crisply, pointedly ignoring the way the mercenary’s eyes roll loudly. “Though any and all sensitive technology  _will_  be immediately kept as Brotherhood property. We d — “

“Yeah, yeah, save the speech, I know what you Brotherhood types are like.” The man groans, waving his hand dismissively. “You pay and point, and I shut up and shoot. Fine. It’s a deal. RJ MacCready, best gun in the ‘Wealth at your service.”

“Paladin Danse, Commanding Officer of Recon Squad Gladius, Brotherhood of Steel.” Danse replies, a little pride tingeing his voice, and purposely doesn’t say  _it’s a pleasure_. Instead, he nods his head towards the door and starts walking, the melodic tones of the bar’s stage singer wafting louder as he moves closer to the room’s entrance. “Let’s move out. If we keep a steady pace and avoid the main streets, we can reach Cambridge before it gets too late.”

He doesn’t see so much as he hears the sound of scrambling behind him, before the mer —  _MacCready_ , his mind corrects — comes up right behind him, sounding doubtful. “What, right  _now?_  You  _want_  to get attacked?”

“I’d rather risk it than spend the night in... here,” Danse replies, eyeing a ghoul sipping a beer at a table distastefully. Mentally, he checks for his weapons.  _You never know when they’ll turn feral_. “Let’s  _go_.”

MacCready sputters behind him a little, before finally making a frustrated huff, and hastens his footsteps to match up with Danse’s longer strides. There’s a quiet hiss of  _these damn Brotherhood types_ , and then they’re off.

The rest of the night is, surprisingly, rather simple. MacCready has the basic sense to keep quiet as soon as they’re out of Goodneighbour’s limits —  _and good riddance_  — and Danse is on his toes the whole way through. Fortunately, raider gangs are easy to spot with their bright fires and smoke trails, as are the Gunners with their spotlights, so they give them a wide berth. The supermutants are a little trickier, but they’re loud, and the stench of the flesh they hang around them is more than enough of an indicator to where they are. Feral ghouls are the only real danger in the night, but Danse follows the same way he came, where he knows there aren’t any. Together, he and MacCready make their quiet paths around them, and head off in relative safety, with the only hostilities being the occasional mole rat that dirties Danse’s power armour-clad foot.

They make it back to Cambridge in record time. Danse is more than relieved to see the station still in one piece, the bodies of the ghouls they’d decimated earlier strewn across the lot. He doesn’t see the look of worried disgust on MacCready’s face, and instead treads over the bodies quickly as he makes his way into the station and locks up for the night.

Things are much easier after that. Haylen is much more amiable and easy to talk to than Danse is, even among Brotherhood soldiers, and she takes to MacCready immediately, all polite hospitality that makes MacCready’s brows furrow confusedly at the difference in treatment. Rhys, still injured though on the mend, falls a little more towards Danse’s attitude, though much more hostile and wary, and barely talks to MacCready at all beyond thinly veiled threats that MacCready snorts at. In the end, Danse and Rhys opt to share the same room, setting up their bedrolls, while MacCready takes Haylen’s for the night while she takes watch until Rhys’ turn. Danse and MacCready get to take the full night of sleep — they’ll need it for tomorrow, and MacCready can’t be trusted to be the only one awake while the three of them sleep, unguarded and vulnerable.

The morning comes without any issues, thankfully. Danse rises with the sun, and checks his power armour before preparing the resources needed for the trip up to ArcJet. It isn’t too far away, but he can’t risk being caught off guard. It never hurts to be too prepared, anyway. Not too long after, he hears MacCready rising too, and Danse gets to making a rudimentary — but ultimately filling — breakfast for all of them. Blamco is bland at the best of times, but it fills the stomach and it’s warm. It’s more than enough.

He and MacCready leave for ArcJet Systems within the hour.

The building is fortunately not that far away, and they keep a steady pace while the Commonwealth is still waking from its slumber. Danse runs through the basics of the mission; the way they’ve been stranded, the ghoul infestation, the deep range transmitter that they’ll need. MacCready, for the most part, just offers minor commentary and a brand of snark and sharp-tonguedness that comes hand in hand with wasteland mercenaries, and tests Danse’s patience in a way training never prepares you for.

( The whole time, though, MacCready has a sharp eye out. He pokes fun at Danse and his power armour, his Brotherhood ideals, but the whole time it happens MacCready has his gun drawn. Posture casual, but the tension in his forearms indicating hands ready to fire at any given moment. Annoying as he is, Danse is grateful, at least, that MacCready has good a good sense of survival. )

The building, when they finally arrive and slip into it, is largely gutted. No alarms trigger as they step inside, the heavy footsteps of Danse in his power armour echoing in the abandoned walls, MacCready gingerly stepping over debris to look around. It’s silent. No signs of hostiles, as Haylen predicted, but Danse has never been one to work on just assumptions. He checks his rifle — one of his favourites,  _Righteous Authority_   — and then heads further in.

It’s a scribe’s paradise, Danse realizes quickly as he treads carefully and ducks under caved-in ceilings that could punch holes into his head. Scavvers have gotten through to the main lobby before, but further in remains largely untouched. A place like this, the operations it used to run — he’ll have to speak with Proctor Quinlan as soon as possible to have a research patrol team look over the area before anyone else has the same idea. Even MacCready looks impressed, beside him, eyeing everything, running a hand over a series of dusty knobs and buttons on one side of the room and pocketing a half-empty box of cigarettes. Danse shakes his head minutely.

“Never did understand any of this technical stuff.” MacCready says, moving to catch up to him, navigating dim passages. “What was this place?”

“From my knowledge, ArcJet Systems was a pre-war military aerospace contractor. They specialized in communications, propulsion systems, and custom-built high-tech aviation equipment for the United States, hundreds of years ago.” Danse explains, recalling the information Haylen had granted him. Frowns hard, and shakes his head. “It was corporations like this that put the last nail in the coffin for mankind. They exploited technology for their own gains, pocketing the cash and ignoring the damage they'd done.”

MacCready snorts. “World was already going down the drain. What’s a few heavier pockets gonna do?”

“Those ‘heavier pockets’ are why we  _have_  wastelands like this.” Danse growls, turning to give MacCready a dirty eye. “Just because you’ve adapted to the deplorable conditions of the wasteland doesn’t mean the rest of us enjoy it.”

He turns back and keeps walking, though he doesn’t miss the twitch of anger in MacCready’s brow. “What crawled up  _your_  backdoor and died? Can’t take a dumb joke? Sheesh.”

Danse resists the urge to roll his eyes, though he feels the vein in his temple twitch. He has half a mind to turn around and tell MacCready to just keep  _quiet_ , when his own mouth snaps shut as he enters the next room. On the ground are half a dozen protectron units, semi-destroyed and irreparable. They both fall silent. MacCready gets on a knee to take a closer look at them, eyes concentrated beneath the brim of his cap.

“Don’t think we’re alone here, Cram.” MacCready states. “Laser shots through these guys. Could be Gunners.”

Danse frowns, and gets down to take a closer look, ignoring the mocking nickname. Without even needing to be asked, MacCready straightens back up, standing, gun at ready and body angled towards the doors. Danse would almost be vaguely impressed, if he weren’t so preoccupied with examining the fallen robots, and the room around them. The conclusion he comes to is one that he dreads.

“Synths.” Danse says, finally, getting back up.

MacCready frowns at him, confused. “What?”

“Synths. Most likely first or second generation.” Danse nods. He’s pretty sure, now. “Look around you. These things were shot at close range. Protectrons don’t  _miss_  at short range, and there’s not a single drop of blood around us.”

“Maybe they’re just really good at dodging.” MacCready jokes, the cat-like scowl on his face twitching into a smirk for the first time.

“I’d appreciate it if you were to take this mission seriously,  _merc_.” Danse scowls, remains unamused. “Be wary. They’re surprisingly stealthy for mechanical units. The last thing we need is your cockiness leading us to an ambush.”

He turns in time to miss the way MacCready narrows his eyes, and is professional enough to keep from reacting too much to the muttered whisper of  _last thing we need is that stick up your ass_  from behind him. He makes sure his steps are even and steady, and carries forward into the next room, which contains a few terminals that Danse doesn’t quite have the skill to hack, and unreadable documents. Around him, the facility still echoes quiet. Still nothing yet, but there’s no reason to be anything but abundantly cautious. 

Rounding the decimated corridors, Danse can hear the faint  _whir_  of still-active ceiling turrets. MacCready, for all his arrogance and irritation, at least performs his duty and shoots them down before they can detect either of them, bullets landing dead centre. Danse refrains from praising him, though — last thing he needs is to feed the man’s ego and turn the arrogance to sloppiness. It could get them both killed, if they don’t kill each other first.

A part of him had hoped it’d be simple — turrets are something he can handle no problem, and if it’d just been that then things would be a lot simpler. But right as they’re about to enter what looks like a larger office room, perhaps surveillance, his footsteps abruptly stop at a minute sound coming from inside. A voice, almost. Danse’s brows furrow and he strains his ears.

Beside him, MacCready seems to do the same, voice ducked to a whisper. “You hear that?”

Danse nods. “Affirmative. Stay on your toes.”

“Aye aye, cap’n.” MacCready huffs quietly, and Danse resists the urge to roll his own eyes.  _Don’t stoop to his level, soldier_.

They enter the room quietly, or as quietly as Danse can when covered head to toe in power armour. Almost immediately, two of the doors within the room hiss and slide open, and then chaos erupts, in the form of sudden laserfire and robotic voices that echo loud and ominous, an entire  _team_  of gen 2 synths flooding the room.

“Hostiles!” Danse manages to shout, ducking behind one of the consoles right as MacCready rolls over to one on the other side.

“Thanks, Captain Obvious!” MacCready somehow manages to shout back, sounding frustrated as he props his rifle up on the console and squeezes two rounds and downing two synths.

Danse bites back his anger, and uses it instead to fuel his combat. He keeps himself mostly within view of the synths, mostly because he has the advantage of power armour to protect his frame and MacCready doesn’t. He falls three before one manages to shoot him dead-on in the chest, singeing the metal that stops the laserfire from piercing through his ribs and knocking all the air out of his lungs. He stumbles back, but MacCready finishes the job with five shots that all fall their targets on the first try. Danse’d be impressed if he weren’t trying to regain back the air he’s lost.

He hears the footsteps coming up to him, and manages to peer over and see blue eyes. At least there seems to be no visible injuries.

“Sh — crap, you hurt?” MacCready asks, jogging up to him, and Danse steadies his breathing and shakes his head.

“Fine. I’m fine.” He finally grunts a moment or two later, straightening back up. He really should get the scribes to inspect these Institute weapons later. They pack a stronger punch than Brotherhood-issued laser weapon, and he’s yet to figure out why. “Let’s move. Be at ready — this entire facility may be compromised now, with the synth infestation.”

Danse sees MacCready’s sharp nod in agreement, and they press on. A little bit of laserfire won’t hurt him, he’s been through much worse just going through training. It’s only proof that his power armour is in top shape, and he wears it with pride as he stands as the firm wall between MacCready and the synths that start to make themselves known throughout the facility. Between himself as the human tank and MacCready’s impeccable aim behind his cover, the synths aren’t as daunting as they would be if he’d entered the building alone.

By the time they come to the stairs that’ll lead them down to the engine core — and hopefully, the deep range transmitter — Danse is starting to feel a little bruised all over. His power armour’s taken the brunt of most of the damage dealt to him, so he’ll likely be just a little black and blue for a week or so, but he’ll have to do maintenance on his suit once he’s back in the Prydwen. There’s more than a few dings and dents that weren’t there before from this trip, and he’ll have to remedy that as soon as possible.

MacCready, for the most part, seems to be no worse for the wear, minus a few scuffs and scrapes from moving across the rough floor. There’s a few bleeding scratches from a room earlier where he’d gotten caught on debris, but for the most part, fine. Which is a good thing — primarily because Danse would prefer not to lose anyone on his watch, smart-alec mercenaries or not, but also because MacCready  — despite everything — really  _does_  live up to his reputation as a skilled gun. His aim is impeccable, and Danse can swallow his pride and mild irritation if it means he can live another day.

The walk down is a quiet one. The power is dead and the hall is dark, but opening the engine room draws a quiet intake of air from MacCready. It’s a fascinating sight — the engines, the facilities lying just beyond the walls. There isn’t a shadow of a doubt in his mind that the scribes will devour just about everything in here. It’s a good sign — the Institute hasn’t come to reclaim all this technology for themselves yet.

Though it does mean they have to move faster. The faster they retrieve the deep range transmitter, the faster Danse can return to the station and hail assistance from the Prydwen, and then the faster they can come back here and scavenge all they can before the Institute drops in to pick up wherever their synth monstrosities left off. He moves to the ramps leading down, and hears MacCready following him shortly after. They’ll need to be fast. According to the information in his power armour helmet, it’s already mid-way through the afternoon, and they’ve barely caught a break.

“Transmitter should be at the top, in the control room at the top of the core. The power seems to have killed the elevators though.” Danse speaks, hearing his voice echo in the chamber.

“Yeah, had  _no_  idea the power was out.” MacCready answers sarcastically, taking longer strides to keep up with him, looking a little spooked to be left behind. “Military places like these always have power backup, somewhere.”

“I had no clue.” It’s Danse’s turn to be snarky, giving in  _just_  a little, and taking the smallest bout of pride at hearing MacCready’s irritated huff. He shakes off the satisfaction right after, and goes back to strict professionalism, gesturing a little towards the door at the ground floor, and the viewing window. “There should be a maintenance area off of the main chamber in the back. Go scout it out and see if you can restore power. I’ll keep watch in case any of those Institute synths are lurking around.”

“Sure sure, I’m just gonna take my sweet time. Maybe take a nap.” MacCready snorts, though he moves through the doors anyway, and Danse just releases a huff of frustration and stands at ready.

It takes longer than Danse expects. Ten minutes in and still no sign of power returning. He doesn’t know if it’s because of complications on the inside or because MacCready really  _is_  purposely taking his time on the other side of the glass viewing window, but he does hear the man’s muffled voice every so often, so Danse leaves it alone and gives him the benefit of the doubt. Danse’s stomach is protesting the lack of food and his body feels like an overly ripe, bruised mutfruit, and he has military training. God only knows how MacCready must feel. Would be easier to get things over with so they can return to base, clean up, eat, rest, and then part ways.

Another five minutes in and Danse has half a mind to go in there himself to see what the hold up is — when the footsteps begin.

Danse cranes his neck to catch the sound — metallic, rhythmic, and he barely has the time to think  _synths_  right as the mechanical bastardizations come  _dropping_  from the top of the engine core and in front of Danse and start firing. 

He fires back entirely on instinct, falling back into his training, muscle memory taking over. The synths seem to be coming out of the room they’re trying to get to  — which in itself is worrying, how badly is it compromised?  — and they seem to be almost neverending. The space he has to work with isn’t much by far, and there’s no cover whatsoever except for the main room where MacCready is. He has to take them out as soon as they drop down or he won’t be able to hold on for long.

The first wave or so isn’t quite so bad, and Danse holds his own through gritted teeth as laser weapons punch dents into his power armour, knocking the air from his lungs. He feels like a tin of cram being crushed to a mulch, in the suit. He tries to circle, to keep moving, but the synths are swarming, and the power is  _still not on_. As the synths keep coming, Danse starts to feel real, genuine worry in his system, leaking into fear that he tries his best not to show. He only has so many fusion cells left. His power armour can only take so much before it gives.

And then there’s suddenly an almighty  _whack_  across the side of his helmet, a firework burst of  _pain_  and the sound of metal bashing against metal so hard that his head snaps to the side. Pain shoots up and down his neck and spine and he  _stumbles._ Vaguely he can make out the synth who got him — electric shock baton, and two more synths dropping down with laser rifles, and he summons all his energy and whatever he’s remembered from training to stand up straight, reload his gun, take aim and fire. But it’s too hard, too hard to do when his head hurts something fierce, room spinning, laser rifles going off in a cacophony of overstimulation in his head. Laserfire catches him in the gut of his power armour and it sends him careening back and slamming flat against the wall, making everything  _worse_ , and when he tries to shoot back his aim goes completely off.

The synths round closer. Doubles of each one swim in and out of his vision, and Danse can taste fear in the back of his throat, hands shaking a little. He wills it to stop. If this — if  _here_  is where he dies, if this is how it happens, then he’ll go down fighting. He’ll go down under the Brotherhood’s flag and he will be proud to do so. He only hopes Haylen and Rhys will be okay without him. He hopes they’ll be safe.

He uses the last of his energy to push himself off the wall, rifle loaded and ready to go. The synths blast at him and the one with the baton is closing in on him, and he readies his own weapon. They come closer, another three drop down from the room above with their own rifles raised.  _Ad Victoriam_  is on his tongue, his last victory cry, and right as he squeezes a cell into one of them —

The lights come back on, and it’s enough of a distraction that laserfire catches in his shoulder and sends him stumbling back, clumsy and heavy in his power armour, and the baton synth catches him in the side. His ribs  _must_  be fractured.

There’s the sound of a different voice calling out to him as he stumbles backwards, and then there’s suddenly the feeling of something grabbing onto the nape of his power armour and  _yanking_  him. Normally he’d be too heavy, the power armour’s stabilizers keeping him planted on the ground, but as it is, he’s already off his balance. Like a chair that’s being leaned too far back, and he finds himself falling through the doorway to the main chamber, landing flat on his back and making his lungs  _burn._ He’s fortunate to fall in as he does — the phantom grip that has his back leaves him as soon as he crashes down, and then the metal door slams shut and seals, just barely missing taking off his foot.

“ _Command accepted. Commencing five second countdown._ ”

 _Get up, soldier, your duty isn’t over yet_ , Danse’s mind yells at him, and he gathers the reserves of his strength to turn on his side, pushing himself up on arms that protest every movement, ribs that have to be broken or at  _least_  bruised right now. The room still spins around him and it hurts to breathe deeply, but he tries to keep stable what he can. As the number tick down, he gets to his feet, and stumbles forward to find —

MacCready, standing by the viewing window, brows furrowed and eyes wide and trained outside. One fist is on a big red button on the control frame around him, and outside there are more synths coming down, trying to shoot through the glass and failing. Danse isn’t quite sure how to parse this situation, but that may just be the concussion he almost definitely has. He doesn’t know what’s going on, or what MacCready is waiting for.

Or at least, he doesn’t, until the timer hits the final number, and there’s suddenly an  _explosion_  of molten fire and rocketheat from right outside the viewing window, and Danse’s eyes nearly bulge out of his head.

The synths stand no chance against the heat and flames. As the fire finally dies down, he sees their bodies outside and on the ground, the plastic of their skin, melted, their weapons unusable. It’s enough of a relief that Danse sinks to the ground, and then ends up leaning his helmeted head against the cool metal of the console. Everything is still spinning, but at least they’ll be okay. His body still feels like he’s been used as a personal batting toy for a supermutant behemoth, but at least the synths have been nullified. He just needs to catch a breather, and they’ll be good to go.

“Hey, stupid, look up here and take off your helmet.” comes a familiar, annoying voice, and Danse peers up and scowls. MacCready is standing above him, one of the stimpaks Danse’d packed this morning in his hand, uncapped.

“I would  _appreciate_  it if you refrained from calling me names, merc.” Danse grits out, though he stills takes off his helmet. The cooler air gives him a little relief.

MacCready cocks an unimpressed brow. “And  _I’d_  appreciate you not dying like an idiot out there. I can’t get my caps if both of us are dead.”

“I was  _covering_  for both of us, and  _you_  were taking too long!” Danse barks, frustration mounting. “You mercenaries, all you can think about are your caps. You can talk back to me once you’ve found some purpose in your life.”

“There was a terminal I had to hack back there,  _genius_ , it’s not like I can pull codes out of my ass!” MacCready snaps, eyes flaring, “Of course I think about caps, you’re literally  _paying_  me to be here! And you could’ve, I don’t know, taken  _cover_  inside this stupid room instead of dancing in circles around those things. Ever thought of that, Einstein??”

“I didn’t want to risk your life!” Danse protests.

“Didn’t want to risk  _my_  life, or too busy being the hero to consider doing the smart thing?” MacCready whips back, and Danse shuts up. MacCready scowls. “Yeah, thought so. Keep your head down.”

Danse’s cheeks flush red, frustration thrumming inside him, both from hearing MacCready speak to him like this, and a little from the shame of being too caught up in heroics to think about doing any of that. He doesn’t deign to reply to MacCready, just scowls and looks down. MacCready sighs harshly above him, and then he feels the pin-prick of a needle sliding into his neck, liquid warmth of a stimpak going through him. It makes him slouch in relief. Immediately he feels his head feel lighter, less pained, and while the bruises will last for awhile, it doesn’t hurt quite so much to breathe in.

“C’mon, cram. I’m starving and tired. Faster we get that stupid transmitter the faster we can get out.” MacCready snaps above him, pocketing the empty syringe once he’s done. “And I call dibs on the junk jet.”

And then MacCready turns on his heel and leaves, irritation clear in the line of his shoulders. Danse manages to frown confusedly until he actually rises to his feet again, and sees the massive weapon on the table. He’s not actually sure if MacCready will be allowed to take that with him once the research team arrives. Danse chooses not to trouble himself with it.

He moves forward, helmet wedged between his arm and his side as he gets used to his body knitting itself together again. The stimpak has worked miracles on his system, though his power armour has seen much better days. He’ll have to go all the way back to the Prydwen to fix it — the Cambridge police station doesn’t have the workbenches he needs to hammer out the metal. But at least for the rest of the mission, it should serve sufficiently.

The elevator door is open and waiting, MacCready already inside when Danse steps out. Danse crosses the floor of melted synth plastic and metal, and steps into it. MacCready’s scowl is back, eyes shadowed by the brim of his cap, and remains silent for the ride up. Danse fidgets. He knows he shouldn’t be uncomfortable about it, should be grateful for the quiet, but a part of him still remains restless.

The elevator doors slide back open, and they’re at the top of the engine core chamber. Danse steps out first, leading the way, and MacCready follows behind, silent. The tension is palpable between them, and for once, Danse doesn’t know how to feel about it. For the time being, he shoves it out of his head, and enters the top engine core room. A team of synths are already waiting for them from the inside, but prepared together like this, Danse and MacCready have the procedure down rote, and the synths fall without much trouble.

Danse keeps his focus on towards finding the DRT. It should be unique in appearance, according to Haylen. The tables and consoles seem largely empty, though, and for a moment Danse worries that it’s not here, that he’s been searching for  _nothing_ , that he almost died and now owes MacCready his life over an unnecessary mission.

“This what you’re lookin’ for?” Comes a familiar voice, and Danse turns around to see MacCready holding it. The deep range transmitter, small box it is, resting on calloused palms.

“Where did you find it?” Danse questions, walking over to take it.

MacCready lets him, drops it in metal hands. “On the synth body. Looting like the grubby lil’ nasty merc I am.” MacCready snarks, voice unkind. Danse finds it unfair that he even feels  _bad_  about it.

He tries to will away the thoughts as he heads over to the service elevator that rides to the surface. The power flickers worryingly, but it looks largely fine by wasteland standards, and he climbs in, MacCready following after. The mercenary doesn’t seem to even want to engage him; he stands in the corner, looking like he’s trying to meld into the shadows, rifle slung across his back and arms crossed, muscles in toned forearms tense. Blue, blue eyes glued to the doors, thin lipped mouth curled back into a scowl. MacCready’s stomach growls a little in the silence of the elevator, and if anything, the man just looks more irritated than ashamed by the sound.

 _You’re paying him for half the price he’s worth_ , a part of him says, the part of him buried and gone with Rivet City, with Cutler.

 _Decades ago and you would’ve done the same,_  a part of him whispers.  _You know how it feels to scavenge for scraps to survive._

_You owe him, soldier. Don’t let your place in the Brotherhood get to your head._

Well, damn it.

“Thank you,” Danse finally speaks out, wincing at how loud his voice seems in the confines of the elevator. Blue eyes seem to dart up at him, confused, disbelieving.

“What?” MacCready says.

“For saving my life. Thank you. You’ve more than fulfilled your duty.” Danse says, rigidly. Slightly awkwardly, but at least it’s out there. At least he’s trying. “Your... Your aim. It was outstanding. Good work.”

It’s quiet for a little while. And then there’s an amused little  _snort_ , and Danse looks over, frowning, to MacCready whose shoulders are shaking a little with silent laughter.

“Holy — you look so  _constipated_. Hey, ever thought of getting a plunger and just, goin’ all out in there?” MacCready snickers. Danse’s jaw clenches. MacCready smirks, and waves his hand dismissively. “Fine, fine,  _apology_  accepted, cause I know what you’re trying to do here. ‘s long as I get my caps, you don’t owe me squat. You’re welcome, by the way.”

The cocky grin on MacCready’s face is enough to make Danse groan, and it takes an almighty effort to avoid facepalming. Serves him right for trying to be civil and do the right thing. Beside him, MacCready’s snickering, apparently delighted by Danse’s discomfort, the gentle clink of fusion cells in the pockets of his duster that Danse is sure he’ll sell instead of giving it to the Brotherhood soldier that’s  _right_  beside him with the laser rifle. At least the tension is gone. Danse’s headache is back, though, but at least he knows this one will go away when MacCready  _leaves_.

Danse decides to focus his energy on the positives, and concentrates on the fact of the mission’s success. They have the deep range transmitter. They can go back. And once they’re back at the police station, he’ll hand the DRT to Haylen, who’ll undoubtedly have it running and get assistance coming within record time. Rhys will hopefully be feeling better by then, and Danse will finally get some rest, hydration, and warm food. 

More importantly, he’ll send MacCready on his way — with the rest of the caps Danse had originally set aside added as a bonus. The mercenary may infuriate him at the best of times, but Danse has to admit to a job well done. At least, then, he knows he won’t owe MacCready a thing. It’ll wipe the slate clean, and they’ll go their separate ways. It’s a comforting thought. They work well together, combat wise, but they’re just too different. MacCready simply isn’t Brotherhood material. 

The ride up is quiet, but not awkward. The mission is over and done with. All is well. And Danse, hopefully, will never have to see MacCready again, once it’s all said and done.  _Good._

 

* * *

 

 

( ... Except, he does.

Well, shoot. )

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> self indulgent de-stressing turned into a fic series i wasn't planning for oops. summary subject to changing bc i have no other ideas as i type this. i have oTHER STUFF I NEED TO DO GOD HELP ME @ the people i owe things to: i'm sorry i'm like this skdjfskfdsk
> 
> partial blame for this goes to [WhatsHappeningCowboy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhatsHappeningCowboy/pseuds/WhatsHappeningCowboy) for talking about this w me before. i already had an idle liking for the potential of this pairing and then ollie lit the match that set the fuel on fire. nice going now i need to finish this can you beLIEVE
> 
> thanks for reading (if u made it this far) !!! pls be kind i've never written danse before. everytime u leave a kudos/comment my heart heals


	2. as clear as the sun in the summer sky

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Danse realizes MacCready has feelings. He's not quite sure what to feel, about that.

“He’s an asset.”

“ _Elder_ ,” Danse tries, tone on the border between professional and desperately unsure, fists clenched behind his rigid back, “If I may be permitted to speak, Elder, he is — he’s not Brotherhood material.”

Arthur only gives him the  _look_ , the one that says he doesn’t care, the one that leaves nothing up for arguments. “He doesn’t need to be Brotherhood, Paladin. We’re not initiating him into our ranks. But he  _is_  skilled.”

Skilled, yes. Danse can agree with that much. Skilled enough that even after what he thought would be their last mission at ArcJet, MacCready had come back to the station and helped clear out the rest of the ghouls in the area in exchange for shelter and food for the night. Skilled enough that Haylen had requested his assistance, the following day, to retrieve a few more parts from nearby while Danse had fortified the station and Rhys recuperated. Skilled enough that the one retrieval mission turned to  _three_.

( It wasn’t like Danse could say no. Rhys was effectively out of commission with his injured wrist and leg, and while Haylen had experience and stimpaks, she wasn’t a field medic and stimpaks would only set the bones in the wrong places. The items Haylen needed were too delicate, too specific to send Danse on alone, but neither was letting Haylen go out on her own to retrieve them herself. To his own dismay, MacCready turned out to be the perfect compromise — as long as there were caps, food, and a roof over his head at the end of the day.

Danse had tolerated it, though. No sense in being aggravated over a perfectly reasonable solution — maybe he and MacCready didn’t necessarily see eye-to-eye, but he’d be willing to be professional for Haylen’s sake. Just a few days of smart-alecky comments and snark would be fine, just until assistance arrived. And Haylen looked pleased to have a new friend — she got along well with the mercenary, and Danse wasn’t about to play the jealous card and stand in between that. He was fine with playing protector until assistance arrived, and then he could send MacCready on his way and things would be back to normal.

He hadn’t counted on Haylen including MacCready in her reports. He hadn’t counted on  _MacCready_  to have  _that_  much of a reputation.

He certainly didn’t expect Elder Maxson to express any kind of interest in it, but here they are anyway. )

“He’s been mentioned quite a few times by our scouts, and scribe Haylen’s latest mission reports have been nothing but his praises. He has skill and he knows the Commonwealth better than we do.” Maxson continues, as if the decision weighs nothing. “We could use him. Better for us to be behind his crosshairs than in front of them.”

“With all due respect, Elder, I think it is highly unnecessary.” Danse presses on. “Our soldiers are more than capable enough of handling missions on our own. And he’s a mercenary — how can we trust him?”

“And with all due respect,  _Paladin_ , it’s because he  _is_  a mercenary that we can trust him. His loyalty lies with the highest bidder, and we can pay more than any average wastelander, I assure you.” Maxson argues right back. “You and I both know we have a backlog of assignments that need to be completed, and we can’t put the Brotherhood flag on all of them. We can use him to fulfill objectives without  _ever_  having to associate ourselves. It’s a win-win situation, Danse, he’ll be fed and armed and we can get more things done this way.”

Danse likes to think he’s professional enough to keep a straight face, and professional enough not to challenge maxon’s orders when given, but he knows he’s wincing at this one. MacCready has proven himself well on a mission-to-mission basis, but among the Brotherhood? Danse is skeptical. And he’s not quite sure if he can handle seeing MacCready on a regular basis. So far, the man’s been almost nothing but snarky and sharp towards him — Danse likes to think he’s professional, but he’s unsure if he can handle seeing that cocky smirk almost daily and not strangle it out.

“I really think you should reconsider — “

“It’s not up for debate — “

“ _Arthur_   — “

“This is an  _order_ , Danse!” Arthur snaps, and Danse straightens reflexively, ramrod straight, dread in his own system. “if it bothers you so much, I’ll put him in probation under your care. If he does anything that proves detrimental to the Brotherhood, give me your evidence and I’ll throw him out myself. This shouldn’t be an  _issue_ , Paladin, and you’re making this a larger deal than it should be. We’ve had freelancers many times before. This shouldn’t be treated any differently.”

Shame courses through him. Of course, he should know better than to argue with Arthur about this, an Elder — an over such a minor decision, at that. This wouldn’t be the first time the Brotherhood has taken in freelancers, offering work and resources in return for completing missions too dirty or below the Brotherhood’s immediate priorities. But still. At least none of the freelancers before — they weren’t quite so  _aggravating_.

But he knows when to put down his arms, and Danse ducks his head, nodding. “Understood, Elder.”

Maxson only huffs, turning back around. “Good. He’ll be stationed in the airport until further notice. You’ll be tasked with showing him the premises and basic rules. Are we clear?”

Danse nods again. “Affirmative, Elder.”

“Good.” Maxson,  _Arthur_ , says. Doesn’t even meet Danse’s eyes as he goes back to scribe reports. “Dismissed.”

As Danse leaves, he hopes to any deity out there that he’ll make it through the year without losing his mind. MacCready just isn’t  _Brotherhood_ , and his sharp mouth just won’t do here. Though if Danse were honest — he hopes MacCready learns it the hard way. If MacCready keeps running his mouth and angers the other Brotherhood soldiers, Danse figures kicking MacCready out will be a unanimous decision. It’s enough to lighten Danse’s footsteps as he heads to his quarters, a smile on his face.

He gives MacCready two weeks.

 

* * *

 

 

MacCready makes it a  _month,_  and counting, to Danse’s dismay.

MacCready stays on the airport base, is given a bed, access to the showers, three square meals a day and payment for every mission completed for the Brotherhood, which isn’t lacking in any sense. There’s a surplus of simple retrieval and area clearing missions that the Brotherhood is happy to toss onto the freelancer. Danse is certain he’s supposed to be more pleased over this, the Brotherhood not needing to risk the lives of fellow soldiers over simple supply retrieval, but it’s difficult to be overjoyed when he’s fairly sure he’s going to have a stroke by the end of the first week.

MacCready is. Difficult. To work with. That, in itself, is the understatement of the year — it’s different, Danse is certain, when it’s just one simple mission, compared to working together  _officially_. For the most part, MacCready seems to be happy to not interact with the other members until interacted with, but Danse doesn’t exactly have a choice in the matter. He has to keep constant supervision, has to ensure MacCready won’t stab them in the back or blow anything up. If so much as one supply ration goes missing, the first gazes will turn to MacCready, and thus onwards to Danse. He’s a Paladin. Irritating, difficult mercenaries or not, he has to fulfill his duty to the best of his abilities.

Even if it means dealing with MacCready on a regular basis, who Danse is half certain is part child. He spends his free time reading childish comic books, makes horrendous jokes, and seems to be bent on getting a rise out of Danse whenever possible. Danse, perhaps, can admit to snapping back once or twice, maybe not reacting well to jokes that  _may_ have been in genuine good humour, but he doubts he’s ever as — as  _immature_  as MacCready is. The mercenary is all arrogance, cheeky and cocky as a gun, sharp tongue rivalled only by sharper eyes, and  _completely_  against the disciplines of Brotherhood life.

The worst part though, Danse thinks — the worst part is how  _capable_  MacCready actually is. He has the skill to match his cockiness, can go from childishly immature to immensely  _dangerous_  in just a flicker of his gaze, and it keeps Danse constantly tense, and constantly irritated. The same hands that flick through issues of grognak are the same ones that hold infinite patience when it comes to the trigger. It’s hard to believe that the same man who could strike fear in the heart of anyone caught in his crosshairs is the same man who Danse mentally throttles every morning when he’s greeted with  _hey, how’d you get that stick up your ass to fit into that tin can of yours?_

Danse has pulled string after string, pushing MacCready into every simple miscellaneous mission the Brotherhood has, partially to get MacCready out of his hair and partially to find any,  _any_  reason to hand him back to Maxson to escort out of the Brotherhood. It isn’t that Danse is ungrateful for MacCready’s service, for saving his life; he  _is_ , and he’s fairly sure he’s already offered generous compensation for such. But there’s only so much  _if I stick a pencil up your b-hole, will you crap out a diamond?_  And  _you’re all pretty much stuck on ‘rigid’ as a default, huh_  a man can take. He doesn’t want to risk MacCready’s life on a mission or put him in any danger, of course, he dislikes the man but he isn’t  _homicidal_  — but Danse thinks he’d lower his blood pressure a little if MacCready would just. Leave. 

But MacCready seems to refuse to disappoint, fulfills every mission with flying colours, excels in sharpshooting, is wasteland-smart and even offers useful advice every once in awhile and — by the time a month rolls around, MacCready’s gotten quite a fair bit of support from the airport’s crew, and there goes Danse’s hopes and dreams of having a little peace and quiet back in his life.

As it is, the day is bright and clear. The sky is as blue as the wasteland gets, a stark difference from the constant films of muddy browns and greens in the Capital, and the Prydwen hangs proudly in the sky, a true token and trophy of Brotherhood power. It’s the sort of day Danse loves best. Or typically does, anyway, when he  _doesn’t_  have a mercenary under his supervision who’d come up with at least thirty different ways to call him ‘tin can’ over breakfast.

So instead of enjoying the day for what it is, he’s irritable and tense, headache throbbing in his head from the argument he’d ended up having with the mercenary an hour ago. It’s his fault for rising to the bait, certainly, and he admits his shortcoming there, but damn it, MacCready just seems constantly spoilt for a fight here and Danse is  _this close_  to assigning himself back to Cambridge.

For what it’s worth, he does try to savour in as much of the good day as he possibly can. His power armour was just recently maintained, and it’s as smooth as a dream as he strolls down the airport base, and the breeze offers mild relief from the throbbing in his head. A few initiates and squires walk past him and salute; he finds himself smiling and saluting right back, before he goes back to his current objective: locating the new initiates.

Scribe Vee had informed him that they were outside of airport territory, doing target practice  — ‘they’ being the initiates, and MacCready. Danse will have to reprimand them for this one — it’s dangerous to go outside without prior notice to any of the higher ups, especially with news of supermutant roamers wandering closer to Brotherhood territory. Not to mention, today is supposed to be a mandatory safety lesson taught by himself and Proctor Ingram — to skip out on training is disobedience and a disappointment. He’d thought the new recruits better than to get caught up in the mercenary’s... shenanigans.

He hears the familiar  _crack_  of MacCready’s sniper rifle as he approaches, and Danse sighs. Rolls his shoulders under his power armour, and comes closer. Is about to open his mouth, when he sees a familiar greasy mop of hair.

“Proctor Ingram,” Danse immediately greets, standing straight, saluting her.

She turns, looks at him amusedly. The lines around her eyes have sunk deeper lately, but her smile is at least genuine. “Paladin Danse. At ease, we don’t have to be so formal down here.”

“I’m aware.” Danse manages a wry smile back. She’s always been kind to him — no-nonsense, but never unnecessarily cruel or stern. He turns back to the scene before him, though. Frowns. It’s not just the new recruits — Knight Lucia and Initiate Clarke are both there too, standing by MacCready, who’s staring down the scope of his rifle, trained and ready. He’s taken off his duster and inner button-up in favour of a more weather-appropriate black tank top, and Danse can see the way his shoulders move as he take a slow inhale. Holds it. And then —

 _Crack_ , and Danse sees the subtle shift of the muscles in MacCready’s arms, the modest but clearly toned biceps, impressive forearms, the slow roll of his shoulderblades as he straightens. A drop of sweat trails down MacCready’s throat and to his collarbone, adam’s apple bobbing as he swallows. Danse’s own throat goes abruptly dry.

Proctor Ingram chuckles beside him, and Danse  _absolutely_  doesn’t think about why it suddenly feels warmer, or why it takes such a feat of willpower to tear his gaze away from MacCready and back to her.

“Haven’t been back down here in weeks and no one told me the new guy was this impressive.” Ingram nods, looking at MacCready too. It takes a surprising amount of focus not to follow her look. “Exemplary sniper.”

“It’s why Elder Maxson decided to take him in as a freelancer.” Danse agrees stiffly. And then, to clarify, “ _Temporarily_ , of course.”

“Really? A shame. He’d be a fine addition to the team otherwise.” Ingram crosses her arms, glancing back at Danse before turning back to the sniper. Danse hears Knight Lucia encouraging him, and MacCready grins sharp and cocky as he agrees to whatever she says and takes aim again. “We could get him to teach the initiates some shooting skills. A little target practice. I’m sure he’d agree if we put up a few caps or a hot shower on the table.”

Danse struggles not to make a face. He doubts he’s entirely successful. “With all due respect, Proctor, I’m not entirely sure he has the traits to be a... good teacher.”

“No one said he had to be formal about it. We learn a lot of things just by watching.” Ingram smiles knowingly, tapping the side of her temple, before turning to him fully. “Which, by the way, we should be doing now, shouldn’t we?”

“We should.” Danse agrees, happy to be back on familiar ground. “I came because I thought they were out here unsupervised. Though since you’re already here, I presume we can gather them up by the usual spot.”

“Of course. Sorry to take them out here without informing you, Paladin. I was a little too intrigued by the new guy.” Ingram chuckles. “Alright. Been awhile since I’ve been on the ground, might as well enjoy it. Let’s gather ‘em up.”

Danse grins at that, and gives her a final salute as he tromps off to do just that.

(And if he also spares one final look to MacCready, popping another shot, wiping the sweat off his brow and rolling his shoulders — well, no one can prove it.)

 

* * *

 

 

The sun is warm on his face, but the breeze that comes with being so high up in the air dries the sweat on the nape of his neck. He breathes in deep. Commonwealth air is so  _sweet_  compared to the Capital Wasteland’s — the people of the Commonwealth have no idea the luxury they have here, though he supposes the Capital has the advantage of clean water.

Regardless, being up here is always refreshing. It clears his mind. He misses his team back at the Cambridge police station, of course, misses Haylen deeply and even Rhys to a certain degree, but he’d be lying if he were to say he didn’t miss being stationed back on the Prydwen more. It’s a sign, it’s Brotherhood power embodied, a sigil of hope for all those who hold their ideals, and the view is certainly a morale boost.

Metal clad hands grip the handrails at the edge of one of the hangars, and he watches the people down below, his friends and family. He knows he’s very close to the edge, where the handrails stop as it clears room for vertibirds to unload. Beside him, a few scribes walk to take routine deck checks. They nod and salute him as they pass, as he returns back. His proximity to the drop is nothing out of the ordinary to any of them. There are no nerves rattling him, his heart as calm as the rolling ocean below as he glances down at the boston airport. To see so much of the world from just this one spot — it is empowering, if nothing else.

He almost misses the flashes from the ground because of it, startles a little once it catches his eye. Two long flashes, one short one, then three long ones again.

It makes Danse smile. This is one of the highlights of his time on the Prydwen, one of his favourite delights since being granted with the sacred position of Paladin. Making sure his armour is secure makes him forget his headache, the sweet breeze ruffling his hair enough to clear his mind. Here, he forgets his troubles. Here, he doesn’t have to think on his responsibilities or his pains, or troublesome mercenaries who seem to insist on trying to aggravate him through whatever means necessary short of murder.

Here, he steps forward, and then the world becomes nothing but him, and the clear, blue sky.

Danse falls.

For a moment, there’s nothing but the wind rushing around him and through his ears. He watches the world pass in a vertical blur, his power armour righting him. Just for awhile, he feels this; completely weightless, and free. The first time he’d done this, it’d taken all his discipline not to cheer as he descended — he’s more controlled now but jumping and freefalling off the Prydwen has never become less of a rush. His eyes water a little with the wind, but his heart is never lighter.

The few breathtaking moments between the Prydwen and the ground is always too short for him, but it comes up anyway, and he lets his training take over as he hits the concrete with an earth-shaking  _boom,_ bending his knees as the power armour’s shock absorbers take the brunt of the impact. It feels like a one-storey jump with the power armour on, and once the dust settles he straightens up, taking in deep breaths and combing a hand through his hair. His eyes open, his spirit lighter — and he feels just a little bit of pride, when he sees the new recruits standing ten feet away from him, eyes wide open in awe, Proctor Ingram smiling knowingly.  _This_  is how you make a Brotherhood entrance.

Behind them, he spots MacCready leaning against a wall, still without his duster and water bottle half-raised to his mouth as he  _stares_.

Danse feels only a little bit smug at that, and straightens.

“As you can see, Brotherhood power armour is extremely sturdy.” Danse finally speaks, watching the recruits snap ramrod straight back to attention. Good. “While we certainly don’t aim to drop our soldiers from such heights as the Prydwen, there  _will_  be moments where Brotherhood soldiers will have to take great falls, from vertibirds and high ledges. This is where the power armour comes in.”

“Our suits can, up to a certain height, almost completely negate any fall damage.” Proctor Ingram joins in, coming to stand by his side. “This is on the assumption you; a) know how to move comfortably and easily in power armour, and b) that you know how to land. Power armour suits are useless if you don’t know how to steady yourself, and if you have shitty reaction time. Let my legs be an example of that — power armour can’t protect you from falling debris if you don’t know how to move on reflex.”

He watches as a few faces morph at that, glancing at her legs encased in power armour, the only things keeping her standing. Some of the initiates look more apprehensive about the training — some look over on her in a sort of pity, sympathy. She doesn’t acnkowledge either of these, continues on talking like nothing is happening.

“And before all that, and above all; you need to be completely and absolutely unafraid of heights.”

Danse watches for their reactions. Immediately, he spies a few recruits who look uncomfortable with the idea. It isn’t uncommon, especially among wastelanders who have never been to anywhere higher than their ramshackle homes. Without really thinking about it, his eyes drift to MacCready too, a small part of his brain wondering if MacCready is one of them. It’s a question that’s immediately answered, wordlessly, when he meets the awed, interested blue-eyed stare. 

“If you couldn’t already tell from the Prydwen and the vertibirds, you’re going to have to get used to heights if you want to stick around. And not just being there either — there are plenty of Brotherhood missions where you’ll be forced to be dropped down into hard-to-land locations, or where jumping with power armour will save time, energy, and possibly your life. Whether you end up a scribe or like Paladin Danse here, overcoming the fear of heights and learning to wrestle with it is  _extremely_  important.”

She gives them all a look over. He watches her lips twitch into a smile.

“And that’s why we’re going to  _train_  that fear out of you.”

The words land immediately. Eyes widen, some in fear and some in awe, and Danse stands proud and firm as he lets the reactions wash over them like a summer breeze. Proctor Ingram has always been an impactful teacher, and seeing her work her charisma on the new recruits is always refreshing. Beside them, he already sees a whole row of knight journeymen lining up, prepared for the next phase of today’s training. She’s always been prepared like that.

“I promise you, by the end of this week, you will either quit the Brotherhood, or you will never fear the skies again.” Ingram says, loud and clear, confident and firm in equal measure, “Today you’ll have your first taste of what freefall  _really_  feels like. If you can measure up to that, you’ll move on to jumping from the Prydwen’s docks, then basic power armour training, and then advanced power armour training if you’re promoted into the ranks of knight. Even if you aren’t, everyone needs to learn the basics of falling and landing. Are we  _clear_?”

A ringing affirmation echoes out among the initiates, saluting them both, and the journeymen come by to assign themselves to respective initiates for what’s happening next. Danse knows this training ritual by heart, though this will be his first time performing it in the ‘Wealth. In a way, he’s excited — the skies here are so much clearer than the Capital Wasteland, and he is eager for the dive. Just a half hour of basic briefing, and then they’ll take to the skies, himself leading the soldiers and Ingram on the ground to greet them as they land.

It’s perfect. A solid plan. Just as Danse is about to move off though, to head to the vertibird with the rest of the initiates, he hears Ingram speak up again.

“You. Mercenary. Do you want to join them?”

Danse sees MacCready freeze the same time he does, eyebrows raised to the hairline, eyes wide. Ingram, for the most part, looks only mildly amused, but mostly impatient. She taps a metal-clad foot. MacCready makes a  _who, me?_  Gesture and Ingram only looks unperturbed as Danse returns the sentiment.  _What_?

“I spoke with Elder Maxson yesterday after I saw your performance. Checked your records so far, and in my opinion, we’re underusing you.” Ingram explains, calm and clear. “You could be doing so much more for the Brotherhood with your skills, but we’re wasting you on simple retrieval missions that we’re just dusting off our shoulders. We could use you for better things, we’ll just need to throw you into basic training.”

“With all due respect, Proctor Ingram,” Danse hurriedly cuts in, “The other missions, the Brotherhood can handle. There is no need to put him on the front, and especially no need for  _power armour_  training.”

Ingram raises a brow, gaze sharp. “Never said he had to go for power armour training. But we  _do_  have some missions that could use his particular skillset, and if he joins us for some basic training, we could use him more. Get things done faster, and he can learn something new. Maybe even open up access to some facilities for him.”

Danse frowns, just a little. He’s already dreading where this is going. “It sounds a lot like we’re initiating him into our ranks, Proctor. Are — are you sure about this?”

“We’re not. But we  _are_  making the most efficient use of our assets. All we need is to throw him in a little more basic Brotherhood training and we can make better use of his skills.”

“Thanks for the compliments and all, but I’m standing  _right here_ ,” MacCready interjects abruptly, makes Danse startle a little. He’s scowling. “I’m not some  _toy_ , you can’t just throw me around like that without asking.”

Ingram, for the most part, seems unperturbed, but she does look at MacCready seriously. Her gaze seems to make MacCready’s anger fade, for the most part, and he settles back on his feet, looking grumpy but not quite so aggravated.

“That’s true. It’s why I asked. This has to be your decision — you’re not Brotherhood and I doubt you want to be, from what I hear, but this could be win-win for all of us.” Ingram explains, like she’s just describing the weather. “If you choose to take on these extra, slightly harder missions, we’ll pay you an extra hundred caps for each one completed. If not, you don’t have to join us for training and you can do what you’ve been doing. It’s your call.”

The mention of the caps, Danse realizes, makes MacCready’s expression go from grumpy to unsure very, very fast. Danse’s own brow twitches. Caps. Of course that’s what the mercenary will prioritize.

Or at least — that’s what Danse thinks, up until he realizes MacCready’s taken a step forward. And then he hones in on the finer details — the furrow in MacCready’s brow. The worry in his eyes, a stark different from the cocky arrogance usually found there, hesitation in his body language but anticipation. MacCready looks — scared? Unsure? There’s something here Danse can’t parse, the look in MacCready’s eyes suddenly so different that he has whiplash.

MacCready looks, abruptly, so vulnerable. Danse isn’t sure how to react to that.

“A hundred caps each?” MacCready echoes. He looks so much younger. “You’re not kidding me, right? A whole hundred caps  _each_?”

“That’s right. They’re not going to be easy, I’m warning you, they’re not like the simple retrieval business we usually send you out on, and there’s a reason we’d like to avoid our own Brotherhood soldiers getting involved. But if you’re up for it, all you’ll need to do is brush up on some training with us and we’ll send you out.” Ingram offers. Shoots a look at Danse. “I’ve already discussed this with Elder Maxson. It seemed like a fair decision for us.”

Danse knows when he has to lay his hands down. If Ingram and Arthur both agreed on it, then Danse knows better than to argue over what’s supposed to be a simple, efficient decision.

“Okay,” MacCready answers. His shoulders are tense, but his eyes are, suddenly, determined. His following grin seems more forced than Danse wants to notice. “What’s a little skydiving anyway?”

Ingram grins right back. “Atta boy. Follow the other initiates — Danse will be your tandem partner for today’s training.”

Danse breathes heavily out his nose, but nods his affirmation as MacCready turns to look at him, even if he refuses eye contact. He may not be... happy over the arrangements, especially not when MacCready seems so bent on getting a rise out of Danse at every possible opportunity, but Danse won’t delay important progress just because he and MacCready don’t see eye to eye on most things. He can be professional. He will be.

It’s somehow easier to do that, when all he can think about is why MacCready had looked both relieved and scared, earlier, at the mention of caps. A hint of a different, new side to MacCready, one Danse has never seen before and is suddenly, painfully curious about. What could make that kind of look? It wasn’t greed, Danse knows what eager greed looks like — this one was. Desperate. Hopeful and wary in equal measure. For the moment, MacCready had shown a different depth to him, more than just being an irritating mercenary.

But Danse can’t focus on that now. There’s training to be done.

 

* * *

 

 

The vertibird roars around them, and the ground is far away.

The wind is rushing around them, the late afternoon sun rolling sweat down the nape of Danse’s neck. Below them, Danse sees the Commonwealth sprawled out just like before. Except this time it’s different.

This time he feels both lighter and heavier — lighter, because he’s stepped out of his power armour, clad in only his Brotherhood jumpsuit and his parachute, and heavier because in front of him is MacCready, who he’ll have to look out for to make sure they don’t splatter to the ground. Who looks both terrified and  _excited_ , almost, in awe as he peers over the edge of the vertibird, sitting between Danse’s thighs as Danse straps the both of them together.

Here he is, snapping together buckles to attach himself to the man he’s sure hates him, to some degree.

Still. It isn’t like he has much of a choice. Beside him are two rows of initiates and knight journeymen, all of them waiting to make the same jump as the vertibird rises higher. They’re not ready to jump from the Prydwen just yet, not experienced enough to handle the lower altitudes, so it’s normal for the first week’s jumps to be from vertibirds instead. As it is, Danse has to serve as an example of what to do, both to the new initiates as well as to the journeymen, to be level headed, calm and clear, even while handling rookies.

In front of him, MacCready’s knee won’t stop bouncing. In his head, Danse can’t stop wondering about the look in MacCready’s eyes earlier. A response to caps, but it wasn’t out of greed. It was something else, something different, something... sadder. Desperate, almost. Danse can’t figure it out, and he’s only giving himself a headache trying.

He tries to clear his mind. No use puzzling it out now. He can do it later, when they’re not hovering thousands and thousands of feet above the ground. Peering over the edge, he can see the world laid out before them, and the wind is familiar in his ears. He breathes, in and out. Sweet Commonwealth air in his lungs, and out again, calming himself. It’s just training. He won’t let anything ruin this for him.

The vertibird pilot gives him the signal once they’re high enough, up so high he could land on the top of the Prydwen if he wanted to, and he double checks all their gear for the last time (though there’s really no need since he’s made sure everything was in place before they’d ever left the ground, but there’s no sense in not taking extra caution.) Right against his chest, he can feel MacCready’s tense back, the harsh, rigid line of skinny shoulders. In the afternoon sun, it turns the edges of MacCready’s hair blonde, and Danse is inches away from the shadows of the bump of the base of MacCready’s neck, the beginnings of his spine.

The pilot gives them the thumbs up, and MacCready tenses, somehow, harder.

“Remember to breathe.” Danse finally says, voicing himself louder over the roar of the engine, moving forwards and making MacCready move with him to the edge, toes hanging over the edge of the world. “Scream if you need to.”

MacCready gives him a look, wide-eyed beyond his goggles, turning just enough to see him, and Danse finds a little amused, smug smile at the corners of his lips before he can even help it. Feels good, for once, to make  _MacCready_ speechless. 

He doesn’t let MacCready reply. Just checks his grip, counts them down, and launches the both of them out of the vertibird.

The world spins around them, and they freefall.

There’s nothing in his mind, everything drowned out and rushed out of his system by the wind and air moving around him. Every worry out of his his head, out of his heart, at least for now, as they catapult down to earth. His soul is weightless in the open air, and he almost wants to close his eyes, just to feel nothing but true bliss.

And then — and then he realizes a sound, different from the rush in his ears, and for a moment he panics, wonders if it’s the equipment — until he realizes what the sound  _is_ , and he looks down to the man he’s almost forgotten is strapped to his chest.

It’s MacCready, and he’s  _yelling_.

Not screaming, not anything out of fear but — he’s  _whooping_ in delight, Danse realizes with widened eyes. Danse can’t see his face from here but he can hear the delighted, wild laughter beyond the wind rushing around them, ecstatic, and it’s so  _different_  from the cocky, sarcastic laughter that Danse usually hears from him that Danse barely realizes himself grinning until MacCready throws out his limbs and laughs  _louder_. 

This, the falling, the weightlessness of it all — it feels like coming home, and Danse’s mind goes blissfully blank in a new, wholesome way as they drop towards the earth. The world is spinning around them, their lives laid out in the landscape remnants of a broken world, in the fallen gods of crumbling architecture, seeds of new life bursting from between the cracks in concrete. Above them, nothing but the open sky, bright and blue and full of hope, full of light, and Danse feels featherlight as MacCready yells loud into the rushing wind, joyous and jubilant.

They come down like celestial bodies, like meteors down to earth, until Danse pulls the release and the both of them jerk a little as the parachute catches the wind. Even without the freefall they’re still drifting, miles and miles above the Commonwealth. Danse can see far into the land from here, all the way to the glowing green of the sea up north, and in front of him he can feel it — MacCready, breathing hard, breathless, illuminated by the afternoon light and looking like something else altogether, arms thrown wide to the Commonwealth below.

Danse doesn’t find words in him to say. He finds he doesn’t need to. They ease down together, weightless and warm, the world sprawled out below them.

They drift like dandelion seeds back down to the earth, landing a little clumsy but largely okay and mostly on their ass because it’s easier, sliding down to the sand. The parachute furls down like a blanket behind them when they finally slide to a stop. Already, Danse feels the acute loss of being in the middle of the sky — it always feels never quite long enough.

And MacCready — MacCready is  _shaking_ , Danse abruptly realizes, and suddenly all the weight is back on his mind as he moves hurriedly to unlatch them. Has he hurt MacCready? Did he hurt his ankle on the way down? He’s almost done unbuckling everything that needs to be when he realizes that it’s not the bad kind of shakes — can’t be, not when MacCready suddenly starts  _laughing_ , loud and euphoric, and Danse just. Pauses.

“Holy shit,” MacCready says, finally, words wet between bouts of laughter, “Holy  _shit_ , that was — that was  _awesome_!”

The final buckle comes undone and MacCready barely manages to move an inch away before he goes back to laughing. From this angle, MacCready’s back against Danse’s knee, he can see MacCready’s face — his eyes shut tight in laughter, half delirious in his delight, cheeks red, mouth broken into the widest grin Danse has ever seen on the man. So, so  _genuine_ , it’s the first time MacCready has really laughed sincerely in front of him, and Danse —

Danse has never seen MacCready so genuinely  _happy_ , he realizes.

He, quite suddenly, doesn’t know what to do with the new information.

Danse finds heat rising up the back of his neck, and his heartbeat making it’s presence very abruptly  _known_. MacCready’s hair is windswept, tousled, ( _gorgeous_ ,) the sun framing it in a golden halo and the sharp shadows along his jawline ever clear. And then MacCready’s eyes open, and — oh, god, Danse hasn’t noticed  _this_  before — they’re so  _blue_ , wide and the most open and sincere Danse has ever seen, breathless laughter on MacCready’s mouth. He’s suddenly painfully aware of MacCready’s position between his thighs, warm and comfortably weighted, and Danse forgets to breathe for a second.

( Happiness looks good on MacCready, a little hidden part of Danse’s mind says. Brings out a whole new side, lights him up in a way that suddenly turns him from being just a cocky, two-dimensional greedy mercenary into — into something new, something  _else_ , and it’s that much harder to hate him suddenly when this is the first time Danse’s seen him  _smile_  this hard. )

In the end, he’s struck out of his reverie as another pair come down a few feet away from them, and Danse shakes off the sudden warmth in his bones as he gets to his feet, dusts the sand from his thighs. He fervently pushes away the sudden staccato of his heart when MacCready grabs his offered hand, callouses against callouses, doesn’t think about the lingering ghost of it when MacCready lets go so they can walk back to the airport to meet Ingram, grains of sand stubbornly lingering on their legs and shoes and elbows.

They do it three times more over the course of the day. Half the initiates are in love with the activity — the other half are seriously reconsidering joining the Brotherhood. For the first time, Danse’s mind feels oddly weighted as he tumbles down from the sky to the earth — suddenly fit to bursting with new questions, new feelings, everytime MacCready goes down and loses his laugh to the wind in a way that makes Danse breathless.

By the time they’re fully done and dismissed, the sun’s started to set, and Danse purposefully doesn’t look for MacCready as he and Ingram make their way to a vertibird so they can return to the Prydwen. He writes his reports, he takes a long, cold shower, he has dinner and one beer, and then he settles into bed to rest.

( That night, when Danse shuts his eyelids, he sees a different kind of blue, a new kind of sky — the kind that is wide and open, breathlessly infinite and indescribably beautiful, and reflected in familiar sharp, bright eyes. )

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if you dont write highly self indulgent fics abt ur otp skydiving then whats the point
> 
> UHH sorry this took awhile to update, i had fun writing this though i binged on SO many skydiving/basejumping videos. i know not everything is accurate so !! please just pretend things make sense kdfjsdk danse realizes maccready ISN'T just a cocky merc and has FEELINGS and feelings just complicate things, don't it
> 
> i highly recommend watching/listening to this before/while reading ! i also have a [tumblr](keycchan.tumblr.com), come yell at me, i also draw things sometimes. every kudos/comment u put here makes u Cool, honest


	3. so many people have come and gone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two bros, chilling on a warm bed, 1ft apart cause it's real gay.
> 
> Also known as; There is beer, Danse catches feelings, and absolutely has no idea how to deal with it.

The Prydwen is buzzing with energy tonight. The raucous sound of laughter and celebration on the other side is merry and delighted, footstep vibrations coming through the floor, voices talking and cheering as the airship comes alive for the first party it’s had since it's arrival in the Commonwealth. It’s not often that such celebrations or festivities are allowed on board beyond small affairs like birthdays, or some minor decor for holidays the Brotherhood recognized. As it is, though, Danse can already hear the loud sound of muffled swing music coming from beneath his door.

It’s not without reason, of course. The Brotherhood prides itself in duty and putting their cause above personal revelries, always something to do and a mission to accomplish, but today was an exception to the usual rule. A major retrieval mission had gone  _very_  successfully earlier on — the Brotherhood had managed to procure not just a piece of sensitive pre-war technology, but an entire  _facility’s_  worth of it, fit to bursting with pre-war equipment including high-grade military signal trackers that will undoubtedly aid the Brotherhood in finding the Commonwealth’s boogeyman and their monstrous synths.

It’s a major win. It’s a downright  _momentous_  occasion, and so Danse remained unsurprised when someone had made the suggestion to celebrate, and when Elder Maxson gave his official approval. Just because the typical Brotherhood celebration normally consists of no more than a shared celebratory drink in the mess hall doesn’t mean none of them see the appeal in it, nor do they never do it. Get togethers and the occasional festivities raise and maintain morale after all, help establish a sense of camaraderie among soldiers. 

There are limits placed, of course — a strict (though generous) curfew to make sure everyone can still do their work tomorrow, no one beyond those assigned to duty allowed on the flight deck, no firearms allowed and an everpresent patrol to make sure nothing happens to the participating crew — but otherwise, it is for all intents and purposes, a Brotherhood party.

It’d already started hours ago, as soon as the sun had begun it’s descent over the horizon, the celebrating parties giving claps on the back and telling their stories, idle pleasantries. And then someone managed to plug the radio into the Prydwen’s main deck speaker system, finally cracked open the cases of alcohol Knight Lucia managed to wrangle from Knight Sergeant Gavil and the airport base crew, and the party started in earnest.

Danse generally likes these parties, if he were to admit it. Some of his best memories in the Brotherhood were fond nights and shared drinks with the other soldiers, his brothers and sisters, listening to whatever music they had on hand. Had even gotten into his fair amount of shenanigans in his initiate years — nothing that would damage the Brotherhood or it’s reputation, of course, but he doubts he’d ever forget drinking enough to walk fully uniformed into cold, murky waters and having to spend the next day linked up to a bag of radaway.

As it is, though, he’s in his own quarters, sitting on his bed with his back against the cold metal wall. He can feel the vibrations of the jazz music coming muffled through the walls and his brothers and sisters on the other side laughing and singing along, but all it does is make Danse’s tension headache worse. The bottle of beer he’s been nursing in his palms since sundown is now nearly empty, but he takes a swig of the last few drops anyway, before leaning over to pop open another bottle.

He knows he should be out there. With the only family he’s ever known, celebrating the big step the Brotherhood has made today. He knows he ought to congratulate the team that successfully procured the facility in the first place. He’s one of the only few paladins around, and even Proctor Ingram and Scribe Neriah are joining in the revelries, but —

( — he can still see it. Can still  _feel_  it — the humid, sticky cramped spaces of the pre-war subway station they had to clear out. Ankle-high toxic water sloshing around his boots, dripping from mossy walls and ceilings that seem hardly structurally sound enough for being under, let alone fighting under.  _Blood_ , slicked up and down the tiles and floor and the scent of rotting meat permeating the air and clogging his nostrils, years of training being the only thing that had kept Danse from doubling over from the sheer pungency of it in the enclosed damp space.

The  _mutants —_  )

Danse’s bruises have bruises. He can feel them, makes his face twist into a grimace whenever he tries to move too much, every time he stretches or rolls his shoulders. It’s uncomfortable, this ache in his bones, but he’d take it over the alternative. It’s one of the many pros of power armour — a light battering and a week of being black and blue on the inside rather than having blood and guts on the outside.

It’s more than fair. Better to be loud and clunky than exposed. Better to be battered around like a tin of cram around a hungry yao guai than to be out in the open and having its claws tear through his flesh. Better to be shoved down into ankle-high sludgy waters deep within subway tunnels by massive green hands, seeping into his suit, the stench of it burning through his nostrils, as does the stench of rotting human flesh hot on the maw of the mutant, eyes yellowed and teeth rotted and muscles bulging green and grotesque from under the skin holding him down until he swears he’ll drown encased in his personal tomb of steel and rot  —

( Familiar, so familiar, he’s been here before, he’s done this before, Cutler,  _Cutler, Cutler_  — )

He takes a deep swig of his beer, willing the vicious bubbles to eradicate the last tastes of blood and gore in his mouth that still linger, long after he’d pulled the trigger that’d splattered mutant brains across his exposed teeth. And then he decides to drink the whole thing in one go, draining the bottle, cold condensation slipping down his wrist. It doesn’t aid the headache pulsing in his temples, but it’s easier to focus on that than anything else. Easier to grimace at the  _pound-pound-pound_  of tension behind his eyes than the afterimage of viscera and an old, warm smile that could swallow him whole. When his brows furrow it pulls awkwardly on the stitches that hold one of them together. He focuses on that instead. 

The more he thinks about it, the better it is that he stays here. In his quarters, no one’s around to see him acting like...  _this_. Weak. Pathetic. A high-ranked paladin, one of Maxson’s bests, sitting with legs straight out on a bed in the middle of a celebration, nursing a ridiculous headache and smattered in bruises and drinking beer alone instead of socializing. Too busy focused on the guilt and shame of someone long lost, of a trigger once pulled, that he’d almost let himself drown, in those murky subway waters.

 _Fuck this_. He has half a mind to go to sleep. The ache is heavy and deep in his chest. But a part of him still wants to drink a little more, still wants to soak a little more in this bath of self pity — of  _self-reflection_ , before he allows himself to rest. After all, one of the best ways of learning, he’s realized, is running through the mistakes, over and over in his mind. Thinking about everything he’s done wrong, and how to make sure he’ll never do it again. Knight-Captain Cade may disagree with him there, but he’s not around to see him right now, so what’s the harm?

As if the fates are listening in on him, there comes a knock on the door, and Danse groans internally.

He doesn’t want to. Has half a mind to tell the other person that he’s busy, that he’s not feeling well, that he’s... Well, that he’s doing  _something_ , that wouldn’t require human interaction.

On the other hand — if he can get to his feet and to the door, he may just be able to find enough momentum to stumble outside and grab a few more beers before his legs give up on him. And while unlikely, it could be something of urgent attention, something discrete that couldn’t be announced over the loudspeaker. Who knows.

“Alright, I’m coming,” Danse announces, finally, loud enough for whoever it is to hear, before he heaves himself up and off the bed. His muscles immediately argue, his bruises somehow throbbing in time to the ache in his skull, but he winces quick and then wipes it from his face as he walks to the door. Opens it up. “What requires my attention —”

Well. 

Whatever Danse had been expecting, it’s not this.

“Beer. I, uh — I brought beer.” Says the man in front of him, with the green cap and the shining bullets and the cat-mouthed scowl. No duster, not tonight, but a simple plaid button-up, sleeves rolled on defined forearms, six bottles of beer nestled carefully in one and a seventh bottle held out between skinny fingers, towards Danse. When MacCready looks up, Danse can see the sky again, blue, free-falling. He abruptly finds himself a little wordless. (That’s been happening a lot, recently.)

And then Danse’s eyes roam a little further, and feels the spell shatter when he sees the hint of bandages beneath the collar of MacCready’s flannel. Gauze, already stained, and scabbed-over scrapes on his elbows. It’s enough to bring Danse back to himself, albeit with a new, sicker feeling in his stomach, resting low like a stone in his belly.

“You should be out there celebrating,” Danse says. “With the rest of them.”

“I did. I was.” MacCready replies, eyes refusing to meet Danse’s own, beer still offered out. Danse doesn’t know if he’s hallucinating the warmer tones on MacCready’s cheeks, or if it’s just the beer in both of them talking. “And now I’m here. Look, I even brought you a peace offering, man. Are you gonna let me in or what?”

Danse blinks stupidly for a beat or two, and then finds himself nodding and stepping back, holding the door for MacCready and leaving him space to walk into the quarters Danse was bent on being alone in just a few minutes ago.

MacCready, for the most part, doesn’t seem quite as confused as Danse is. He’s already putting the bottles of beer down on the footlocker when Danse shuts and locks the door, picking one up for himself. When he stretches down, the hem of the flannel hikes up. Exposes a bit of MacCready’s skinny hips, a sliver of skin and the jut of bone.

Maybe, in a different situation, Danse would find himself... Curious. But here, now, Danse can only focus on the bruises mottling it. Black and blue and green and yellow, worse than even Danse’s own ( _because MacCready didn’t have the privilege of power armour, because he was left exposed, because one wrong hit could’ve killed him_  —) and it makes Danse feel sick with it all. So many wounds and bruises, all fresh. When MacCready straightens, Danse can see how the bandage dressing is already stained brown. How MacCready’s face, turned to the side and half hidden, grimaces, and then quickly fades.

“You’re hurt,” Danse says, before he can catch himself. Feels his ears burn a little, for some reason, when MacCready turns to look at him with a hitched brow. “Your wounds — you should have applied a stimpak.”

MacCready’s eyes turn into an almost comfortingly familiar deadpan. “Yeah, sure. Like I can afford one. Not like the Brotherhood’s giving  _me_  any discounts.”

A couple of months ago, Danse would’ve rolled his eyes at the comment. Right now though, it hits somewhere tender, and Danse winces at the sting of it.

( MacCready’s right, of course. The Brotherhood provides their soldiers with basic medical supplies, including a certain number of stims — but  _only_  their soldiers. As a freelancer, MacCready’s privileges in the Brotherhood only go as far as basic facilities and assigned meals. Everything else, he has to pay for, including medical care. Including stimpaks. And the Brotherhood is paying MacCready handsomely, but god only knows where the man spends his caps on — Danse has never, not once, seen MacCready use any of his caps on  _anything_  beyond ammo and a few things for gun maintenance.

Not a cap spent on chems, or clothes, or even those comics he holds so dearly. Not even for food, after long hard days where MacCready comes back ragged and devours his assigned meal in minutes and could obviously use more. Not even for  _water_ , some days. Danse had seen him once go so far as to collect rainwater and boil it for drinking, instead of purchasing a fresh can.

A couple of months ago, Danse would have called MacCready stingy. Cap-starved, a desperate waster. 

These days, Danse sees MacCready, and wonders why there’s an ache somewhere in his ribs that he just can’t find. )

The springs in Danse’s bed lightly groan when MacCready takes a seat at the edge of it. Danse just manages to catch the flicker of a wince as MacCready settles, the colour of mottled yellow and green on MacCready’s far too obvious collarbones peeking out from the collar of his flannel. The scabbed scrapes red on his chest and disappearing past the clothes.

(  _Because of you_ , Danse’s mind chants, shames him,  _because you were too lost in your mind, because you left him defenseless, you were supposed to cover him_  — )

“Open your shirt,” Danse says, and only realizes what he’s said when MacCready’s face flushes  _red_ , eyes flying open and staring. “No, wait, I wasn’t —  “

“What the f — “ MacCready says, redder than Danse has ever seen, spluttering and inching back on the bed, “I didn’t — I’m not here because I — I’m not trying to — “

However red MacCready is, Danse is sure he’s even  _redder_. He feels the heat all the way down his throat as he holds his hands out, just as flustered, because  _no no no that’s not what I meant_  —

“No! I’m not, I am — “ Danse tries, feeling his ears burn, before squeezing his eyes shut and pinching the bridge of his nose. Tries to calm himself. Tries to will the heat in his face away, and the thoughts that’ve come abruptly unbidden to his mind of just  _what_  MacCready had implied. “I’m — I simply want to survey the damage. If you would allow me.”

When he cracks his eyes open again, MacCready is still red in the face, but he’s not looking at Danse anymore. Instead, he seems very interested in the corner of Danse’s room, scowl firm on his face.

“I’m fine,” MacCready says, almost petulant, “Already took care of it.”

“Doesn’t seem so, soldier.” Danse responds, glad as his body seems to be dialing back the embarrassment showing on his face, though its slowgoing.  _When in doubt, fall back onto Brotherhood professionality._  He uses the time to go to his desk. Rummage for some of the medical supplies he keeps on hand, alongside with his medication. “The wound on your neck needs to be cleaned. Requires fresh bandages.”

“... These were the last I had.” MacCready says, slowly. Quietly. Danse pointedly doesn’t think about why it makes something in his heart twinge.

“I have more. You don’t — you don’t have to take off your shirt. Just — let me see the wound on your neck, at least.” Danse says, finally digging out a couple of things. “Let me help.”

“I don’t need your pity — “

“It’s not  _pity_ ,” Danse fires back, “You were —  _are_ , a member of my squad. As your commanding officer in the field, it’s my job to make sure you’re in proper condition.”

Of course, MacCready isn’t under Danse’s command anymore. Only for that one mission earlier, that’s all. Out of the field, MacCready is just another freelancer, not a Brotherhood soldier at all.

Still. If MacCready realizes the flaw in Danse’s logic, he doesn’t say it. Just mutters something under his breath, cheeks still a touch or two warmer, but still starts popping open the first few buttons on his flannel. Danse doesn’t think about why seeing it — MacCready, unbuttoning his shirt on Danse’s bed, face warm and mussed hair peeking from under the cap — makes his breath stutter. Instead, he thinks very professionally, and walks over, bandages and a couple of other things in hand.

MacCready turns, lets Danse have a good view of the wound on MacCready’s neck. The soft, pale skin, abruptly red and an ugly yellow and bruised green around the bandage, makes Danse frown. He’s gentle — gentler, certainly, than he is with himself, as he removes it, hearing MacCready wince. The wound itself isn’t the worst Danse has ever seen — it’s just a large, ugly scrape, a deep wound already scabbed over, like MacCready was shoved up against a rough surface, like a brick wall — but the deep bruise that spreads from it is painful to look at. Would certainly make any shoulder movements or posture straightening painful for the next week or so. Not a good predicament, for a sniper.

It’s for this reason (and definitely not out of the guilt plaguing Danse’s mind, because he was in charge, because MacCready was under his supervision and he’d nearly gotten them all killed) that he ditches the bandages, pulls out the stimpak he’d dug out, uncaps it with his teeth and then plunges it into MacCready’s shoulder with a muffled  _hold still_.

MacCready almost jolts, but then holds still, tense, as the needle enters. Danse can  _hear_  the man hiss in pain — but then he also sees the tension slowly release, as Danse pulls the needle out and sees the stimpak begin to work. Skin knitting, bruises disappearing into thin air, turning MacCready’s skin from mottled colours to it’s gentle fawn. (Danse definitely doesn’t think about pressing his mouth to the nape of that skinny neck, lips gentle against the knobs of his spine, the sweep of his shoulder.)

“You didn’t have to do that.” MacCready’s voice breaks the silence, jolts  _Danse_ , who quickly ignores the heat coming back to his face as he gathers up the things to stuff back into his desk. MacCready’s face is — surprising to look at, actually. He looks  _frustrated_ , almost. Worried? Troubled. When Danse shuts the drawer and looks over, MacCready’s piercing blue eyes lock onto his own, and almost freezes Danse in place. “You didn’t have to waste a stim like that, I would’ve been fine. I don’t — I don’t owe you for that, got it?”

Danse blinks. And then shakes his head, walking back over, picking up a bottle of beer from the top of the footlocker before he sits tentatively on the bed’s edge. “No, you don’t owe me anything. I did it of my own accord. It would be — it would be unwise for a sniper under the Brotherhood’s supervision to be hindered in any way. You are still required for more missions in the near future. And you could consider it a thank you. For — for the beer.”

Of course, the beer was free anyway, but MacCready seems to hesitantly accept Danse’s reasoning all the same. Nods, though the look on his face has gone back to troubled, and buttons up his shirt. Danse picks up the beers, pops them open, condensation already starting to leave damp dark circles on his crisp sheets. MacCready takes one with a muttered thanks, and they take a swig at the same time.

It’s awkward.

The silence seems to stretch on forever. Danse feels every bruise on his body, what with how tense he’s sitting, perched on the edge of his mattress. It’s uncomfortable, and his back is ramrod straight, and MacCready is just. Silent, beside him. Elbows propped on skinny jean-clad knees, back and head bowed until Danse can’t see the expression on the merc’s face, hat shadowing his eyes. The only thing that gives away that MacCready hasn’t abruptly turned into a statue is the rhythmic clicking of a blunt nail tapping against the glass of the bottle, click-click-click.

Danse takes another deep swallow of the beer. Bubbles burst on his tongue, down his throat, he muffles his next burp with his fist and a quiet  _excuse me_  to empty air. He’s so uncomfortable. Why had he let MacCready in again?

 _Because you nearly killed him with your inattentive carelessness_ , his mind helpfully provides.  _Because you can’t let go of the past_.

But Danse had already made amends, hasn’t he? Doesn’t it count? He’d already helped MacCready, had given him a portion of Danse’s pay for the mission to make up for the critical mistake Danse’d made, had just given him one of his own stimpaks. The super mutants had caught them all of guard anyway, so it’s not  _entirely_  Danse’s fault, and it’s not like it was just MacCready with him on the squad, the other knights should have helped, and —

“I’m sorry,” MacCready breaks the silence with, and all of Danse’s flimsy excuses go down the drain.

“What?” Danse says, eyes wide and staring, confused.

MacCready straightens, just a little bit. Just enough that Danse can see the troubled, unhappy look on his face, staring at the floor, fist clenched around the bottle’s neck. “I said — I said I was sorry, alright?”

Danse frowns, a little bit. “I heard what you said the first time. But what are you sorry for?”

“ —  _for today, alright_?!” MacCready finally snaps, louder, turning to look at Danse with a vicious snarl on his mouth but something  _else_  in his eyes. 

Something that makes Danse freeze. Something that hits Danse right in a chord. Something that Danse is desperately, intimately acquainted with — 

Shame.

And it only grows more with Danse’s silence, more and more of it replacing MacCready’s flimsy anger, the troubled look back on his face,  _guilt_ , clouding his eyes and making MacCready turn the endless blues towards the floor again, a hand coming up to slide under his cap, raking fingers through messy hair. Danse is speechless. He, truly and honestly, is stumped for words.

“I know you got hurt too. Can’t hide the bruises behind that jumpsuit.” MacCready says lowly, like an injured animal licking its wounds. “I was supposed to — fuck, I know I was supposed to watch your back, alright? And I didn’t. I failed, or something, I don’t know — I just got, it was the subway, and — hah — I thought I got you killed, seeing that mutie knock you over like a domino, thought you were, you were gonna  _drown_  there when it slammed your face into the water, and I almost, I didn’t — “

 _He thinks_ he’s _the one who almost killed you_  echoes startlingly loud in Danse’s mind, the realization, at the same time as  _this is the first time you’ve ever heard him curse_.

( He doesn’t know when he’d started paying attention to MacCready enough to know, but he knows he’s not happy with hearing it now. )

It takes a moment too long for Danse’s liking for the words to finally come back to him, but when he does he immediately shakes his head, raises his voice to interrupt MacCready’s own rapidfire rambling apologies and explanations. “ — No. No! Listen to me, what occurred today wasn’t your fault, you needn’t apologize for — “

MacCready’s laugh is strangled. “Oh, sure, it wasn’t  _my_  fault those ugly green bastards nearly made that tin can of yours a coffin — “

“ — MacCready, get a  _hold of yourself!_ ” 

 _That_  gets MacCready to finally shut up, mouth clamming shut, though Danse had to raise his voice just a hair from becoming a shout. For a moment, Danse is afraid the rest of the Prydwen’s heard them, that someone will come running to his quarters to inquire about it, or worse, point any guns in MacCready’s direction  — but in the tense quiet between the two of them, Danse can still hear the muffled music thrumming through the walls. The sound of laughter and conversation stifled through steel. Swears he can hear people chanting  _chug! chug! chug! chug! chug!_  In the background.

“... Sounds like they’re having a party. Think anyone’ll be dancing on tables by the time we finish our beer?” MacCready breaks the silence again, though his tone this time is... amused. Tired, but amused. His face says the same thing.

Danse likes it better than the last one, and he finds himself relaxing minutely, a small smile of his own coming to his face despite everything as he looks at the wall separating his quarters from the rest of the Prydwen. “Perhaps. I wouldn’t put it above them. The last time we had a celebration of this magnitude, Proctor Teagan performed what I believe is called a... Kegstand?”

 _That_  brings out a surprised bark of laughter from MacCready, and something airy and dizzying breaks out in Danse’s stomach at the sound, makes his smile break into a grin when he sees MacCready look up at him with those blue eyes.

“No way.  _No way_.” MacCready laughs, disbelieving, “ _That_  guy? Are you serious? Please tell me you guys got pictures.”

“I believe Proctor Ingram might have a few, though you’ll have to run a few errands to bribe her into showing you.” Danse says, grinning. “We  _are_  family, here in the Brotherhood. And family may sometimes be embarrassing.”

MacCready’s expression changes again, here. Minutely. Still tired amusement, but there’s a flicker of something else in his eyes; a bite of tension, a spark of hurt and aching. Something  _sad_ , and it reminds Danse of the first time Danse had seen it, all those months ago right before ingram had assigned MacCready to Danse for basic training. The moment that Danse had finally seen past the arrogant mercenary facade and deeper into it, something different, something that changed everything.

Maybe it was important, then. To make Danse realize he was wrong. To teach him humility and the wrongness of judgment, that had allowed Danse to actually... connect with MacCready, a little, over the past months. Or at least attempt to. Made Danse  _see_.

Right now, though? Danse  _hates_  it.

“I don’t have a good history. With super mutants.” Danse says, slowly. Feels the words struggle in his throat, clumsy and uncoordinated on his tongue. He doesn’t often talk about this.

MacCready looks at him, brow cocked, tone deadpan. “Yeah, I’m not sure most people  _do_ , Danse.”

Danse  _snorts,_ despite himself. Amused, even through the ache inside him. Perhaps if he had a little less beer, he would’ve been annoyed by MacCready’s comment — though maybe if he had a little less beer, he might not have brought this up at all. It’s a personal topic. It’s not one he hides, particularly, if anyone were to ask — but so few even know. He doesn’t like remembering.

But the way MacCready was thinking — he deserves to know. If not for just clearing the air, then for the future. In case something like this ever happens again. In case Danse repeats his mistakes and risks their lives another time. Danse isn’t looking for forgiveness for his mistakes. He only hopes for understanding.

“His name was Cutler,” Danse says, finally. “He was… special to me.”

MacCready watches, attentive. Quiet. Respectful, almost, in his silence. Not pushing for Danse to continue, but waiting all the same for him to do so.

So Danse does.

Everything comes out, in slow pulses. Rivet City, the shack Cutler and himself had built for themselves, the Brotherhood and the Enclave, paused only by the occasional swallows of beer to urge himself forward, and to wet his suddenly dry mouth. He talks about their training, about how he’d been so excited to join the ranks of the Brotherhood of steel, how large the world looked with all the possibilities before him. Before  _them_.

Him and Cutler. Cutler and Danse. The way they’d made it into the same squad together. The way they’d made it through to the end together. The way Cutler laughed and stole Danse’s food and was warm against Danse’s side.

The day Cutler went missing. The three weeks of searching. The FEV.

The day Danse had looked Cutler in the face, and pulled the trigger.

By the time Danse finishes, his bottle of beer is empty, and the stone in his belly feels... Lighter, somehow. To his own surprise. The last time he’d told anyone this story was a year ago, to Haylen, and even that was an abridged version. Before that, even Knight-Captain Cade treated the subject with delicacy, never made Danse speak about it in length, and Danse never bothered to try. To lay it out like this — Danse never realized how therapeutic it’d feel, to have it out in the air, out in the open. Like a weight being lifted off his chest, at least for a little while.

And MacCready is looking at him too. With soft eyes — god, Danse hasn’t seen that before — and a bottle also empty. No more shame or tiredness in that face, and that too lightens the weight. Makes something feel like floating somewhere in his stomach. Months ago, he would’ve never taken MacCready to be a good listener — but these days, MacCready seems hellbent on proving Danse wrong. And lately, Danse doesn’t dread it.

“So. Today. The subway tunnels.” MacCready finally says, voice low and tentative. “Bad history, huh?”

Danse nods, taking their bottles to put down on the footlocker, picking up new ones. “I am... I’m usually fine with dealing with those monstrosities. But up close — I suppose it just. Got to me. It’s no excuse, I know, but I — “

MacCready snorts, handwaves it away. “Stop, I got you. Alright? I don’t — I don’t know, I can’t know what you felt, but. I get you. So stop apologizing over it. Better mutants alone than having any centaurs with ‘em.”

Just like that, Danse feels the day’s tension leave his body. Makes him slump a little in relief, to get it out there, to know MacCready  _understands_ , and —

Wait. “Centaurs?”

MacCready blinks up at him, bottle awkwardly held to his mouth where he looks like he’d just been about to pop the cap open with his teeth. “Uh. Yeah. You  _were_  from the Capital, right? You’ve  _had_  to have seen centaurs.”

“I. Yes, of course, but — I wasn’t aware that the Commonwealth variety of supermutants had any with them. I’ve only ever seen them with mutant hounds at most.” Danse says, confused.

“I said  _Capital_ , genius. The Commonwealth ones — man, I’d take a hundred mutant hounds than those centaurs any day. Fuc — friggin’ freaky.” MacCready shudders, before bringing the bottle up again.

It finally clicks. “You were from the Capital Wasteland.”

“Yup,” MacCready says, popping the ‘p’, “Don’t know if you know Big Town, but — “

“Inhabited primarily of the grown children from the cavern settlement of Little Lamplight,” Danse says, blinking, “Not a far distance from Vault 87, the birthplace of the Forced Evolutionary Virus.”

MacCready —  _immediately_  — brightens at the mention of the settlement, breaking right into a grin that makes Danse’s heart start to make itself painfully aware. It’s almost  _radiant_. “Ha, yeah! Didn’t know if that place was on any of your Brotherhood’s radars, but — probably because of vault, huh. I’m from Little Lamplight. Mayor MacCready, at your service.”

Without even realizing it, Danse realizes the grin that’s threatening to break on the edges of the smile he didn’t even know he had. And then it does, and he laughs a little, the warmth of the beer in his stomach helping the floating feeling and the good buzz he has going. The fact MacCready’s grinning along with him makes it feel all the better. 

He feels — good. Better than good, he realizes. Enough so that when MacCready tries to pop open the cap again, Danse just rolls his eyes and takes it from the man.

“You’re going to hurt your teeth like that,” Danse says simply, and then wedges the bottle in the crook of his arm. Pops open the cap with a flex, one that makes the muscles under his jumpsuit  _known_ , and he hands the bottle back. “There.”

It’s... a bit of a showy move, for certain, but when Danse looks at MacCready’s face, it’s more than worth it. The way MacCready’s looking at him, blue eyes wide, chapped lips parted — and Danse swears he hears the quietest little intake of breath, and a shock of thrill goes down his spine. Pools somewhere low and warm, makes him  _preen_ , even if he’ll never admit it.

“Show off,” MacCready laughs, finally, maybe a little nervously, red splotching down MacCready’s cheek and throat in a way that sets Danse’s nerves thrumming as MacCready looks away, “You Brotherhood types.”

The good feeling in his veins just makes Danse laugh, grin, popping open his own bottle the same way (definitely not to see the way MacCready’s eyes seem transfixed on his arms and, and, he doesn’t dare to think about what that could possibly mean, but,) before putting his beer forward against MacCready’s own. “To the Commonwealth, to us, and to the lack of centaurs.”

 _That_  makes MacCready laugh proper, and he clinks his drink against Danse’s, grinning wide and easy. “To the friggin’ centaurs.”

They drink, and they talk, and it’s  _good_. Most soldiers are born and raised into the Brotherhood, generation after generation raised in the same ranks, within the same walls, under the same Codex. Outsiders being brought in are not unheard of, but relatively uncommon in comparison. Five wastelanders or less in every fifty recruits. It’s why Danse gets along so well with Haylen, he supposes, beyond their obvious compatibility as friends in demeanour — they both have survived outside in the wastes, and it’s something worth bonding over. They both know what its like, living without the Brotherhood’s care, out in the dirt and scrap, barely getting by.

The same goes for MacCready. Growing up in the Capital Wasteland too, specifically. They have more in common than previously thought, if only to just talk and complain a little about the harsh terrains of the Capital. The muggy air, so different from the sweetness of the Commonwealth’s, all the way to the creatures, from fire ants to centaurs. The beer goes quick, quicker than they’d ever think, and by the time they’re at their last bottles they’ve somehow moved upwards on the bed, both of them leaning against the wall and their legs stretched out instead of perched on the edge.

“God, but I miss Three Dog.” MacCready says, half-slurs, head leaned against the metal wall and eyes half-closed. “Travis fff — friggin’  _sucks_ , full offense.”

Danse can’t help but nod in agreement, head lolling a little too much when he stops, feeling the buzz of beer in his gut and in his head. He doesn’t know when his tension headache stopped, but he’s glad for it.

“He could... Certainly use some improvement.” Danse murmurs back, tipping the last drops of beer into his mouth.

“Just  _some_?” MacCready challenges, looking at him, making Danse’s pulse skip.

“A lot more improvement, then.” Danse corrects, and smiles when MacCready snickers. The stone in his belly has been replaced by something else, something warmer, and better. Whether it’s the beer or something else, Danse doesn’t know.

“Sounds about right.” MacCready muses, leaning back, shutting his eyes. His own bottle is empty in his palms, the sweat of condensation on Danse’s sheets. “Makes me miss the Capital Wasteland, sometimes.”

Danse blinks. Feels simultaneously sleepy and awake. “Then why did you leave?” 

It’s an innocent question. It is. So Danse doesn’t know why he feels so dirty when MacCready’s face just — suddenly, instantly morphs into something pained. Eyes opening but not looking at him, mouth twisted back into a troubled frown, grip on the bottleneck suddenly harder. For a moment, Danse regrets ever opening his damnable mouth.

“... Caps.” MacCready says.  _Spits_ , like it’s somehow dirty in his mouth, which is surprising in and of itself from how the man covets the things. “Took the odd job here and there, but it got hard after you guys started running the show. Hitched a caravan here. Made a name, made the mistake of joining up with the Gunners. C’mon, don’t you guys have scribes for this sh — crap? Thought you’d know everything there is to know about me by now.”

It’s bait. It’s cheap bait, and Danse knows this, even through the pleasant buzz in his mind and gut. It’s the kind of thing that’s said in a kneejerk reaction more than any form of actual hostility, Danse knows — but Danse is Brotherhood through and through, and that along with the abrupt change in mood makes him frown. (Pout, honestly, but he wouldn’t use that term for himself ever.)

“As far as I know, we pay you handsomely. Better then — better than some of our own scribes. Feed you, shelter you.” Danse says, gruffly, hackles a little raised. “What, is that not enough for you?”

What he expects: MacCready to snipe back at him, as always. For them to either dissolve into their usual standard of petty arguments, childish insults hurled at each other in reckless, now-alcohol fuelled abandon. Or perhaps it’ll dissolve into something stupid. Make them laugh over how ridiculous they’re being. There’s certainly enough beer in them to do that.

What he doesn’t expect: MacCready to remain quiet. The silence stretching longer and longer, in a way that concerns even Danse. Uncharacteristic quiet — until Danse hears one harsh, sharp intake of a breath, and turns sharply to look.

What he doesn’t expect: MacCready to be crying.

Whatever dull hint of irritation disappears, just like that. Vanishes into thin air at the sight of MacCready, shoulders hunched and tense, a hand still on the bottle but the other over his face, as if it could stem the tears trailing over skinny bruised fingers. MacCready is  _trembling_ , and quiet, but not quiet enough to hide the strangled breaths.

Danse is immediately lost.  _Panicking_ , just a little bit, on the inside. He doesn’t know what to do. Was it really something he said? He’s sure — he’s  _sure_  that he’s said worse before, him and MacCready both. What —

“I’unno,” MacCready finally says wetly, after what seems like an eternity. Laughs, strangled and pained and  _wrong_  as he rubs harsh at his eyes with his forearm, smears tears and snot across his face. “S’it enough? You tell me.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Danse says, feeling... Feeling  _something_ , something he doesn’t like, “MacCready?”

( Helpless. Danse feels  _helpless_. It’s not a feeling he’s keen on having, and it’s not one he’s enjoying now. )

“What do you think, huh? How — how much d’you think it costs? Medical care? Day in, day out? Fresh water? Patchin’ up leaky roofs, fixing up shitty generators, guns to protect a settlement with only three people?” MacCready laughs, a little louder, a little shakier. Sounds halfway delirious, and he may just be. “A fucking  _caravan?_  F — f’ckin’ thing, doesn’t even — it’s  _two weeks_  to get here and two weeks to get back. I don’t — I don’t even know anythin’, until it could be too late. He could already be  _dead_  and I wouldn’t know, not until it’s over.”

“MacCready,  _what_  are you talking about?” Danse says, a little louder, tries to reach through to the man beside him. Feels an uncomfortable mixture of helplessness and  _fear_  inside his system, churning with the beer. Medical care? Someone  _dead?_  Danse — Danse is entirely out of his depth and he doesn’t know what to do, and, and, “ _Who is dying_?”

MacCready finally turns to look at him. Blue eyes stormy, red-rimmed, wet with tears. His smile is one of a man once broken, and never pieced together again quite right.

“My son.” MacCready says, quiet, and Danse’s heart stops for a moment.

“Your son.” Danse echoes. Disbelieving. No one — he wasn’t informed of this. Weren’t the scribes supposed to know this? Why didn’t anyone tell him? “I... I wasn’t aware — where is he?”

MacCready averts his eyes again. Stares straight down to the mattress. Lets the tears fall, doesn’t even try to stop them. “A farm. Capital wasteland.”

Danse swallows. “Does — does he have guardians? Your spouse? Your son, is he — “

“‘s alive. For now. Got — got some old family takin’ care of him. Joseph. Princess. They’re alive too, obv’sly. Can’t say the same for my wife, though.” MacCready says, more tears slipping down. His voice cracks every other word. Grins, but it’s twisted in a visceral, pained way. “Subway tunnel, couple ‘f years ago, we were supposed — we were s’pposed to move to the Commonwealth proper in a year’s time, ‘cause of the cleaner air, we were heading back to the Capital to get our sh — shit, and we took shelter from a radstorm down there, and — “

( Danse doesn’t want to hear what comes next. He doesn’t — )

“ — ferals! ‘f all the fuckin’ luck, right? ‘f all the subways we could’a taken shelter in and I picked the one that almost fuckin’ killed us!” MacCready barks out a laugh, harsh and sharp and  _wrong_. “She screamed at me to run, ‘nd I — I didn’t even  _think_  about doing anything. Was too busy thinkin’ about Duncan, and savin’ our skin, and I turn around and she’s — she’s already thrown herself in front of ‘em, they’re tearing her apart limb from limb, but she stands there like a f — fuckin’ champ, and all I can do is run while she’s, she’s — “

The next words don’t come. MacCready’s voice warbles too much, cracks and frazzles until he finally breaks into a proper sob, jamming the heel of his hand against the bridge of his nose, tears leaking down his face and breaking Danse’s heart. Breaks it even more, when Danse realizes what it means. Why MacCready had been so adamant on apologizing for today.

“Today. The mutants. The subway tunnels — “

“Don’t have a good history.” MacCready manages to reply, echoing Danse’s own words back at him. Forces a smile that fractures and breaks a second later, twisted into an ugly downturn, so  _sad_  that break feels it somewhere in his damned spine.

Danse hates this. All of this. Selfishly hates the fact that he didn’t  _know_ , and hates even more that now that he does, he doesn’t know what to do about it. The wasteland sees more than its fair share of tragedy. A new death happens every day. A family killed. A friend taken. Hell, Danse has experienced it himself firsthand, with his own fingers at the trigger.

But that’s one of the other things about the Brotherhood. They have the advantage, the  _privilege_ , of having someone to look out for them. Someone watching them. Knight-captain Cade performs annual psych evaluations on every member aboard the Prydwen, because the Brotherhood knows intimately of loss, and what it can do to a person. Even Danse had Haylen, had Ingram, has  _someone_  to talk to when he absolutely needs it. When he knows he can’t handle it on his own.

( Danse wonders how long MacCready has been alone. He wonders how much MacCready has had to shoulder, with no one in his corner. On one hand, Danse aches for him — on the other, there’s an odd sort of pride.

This kind of trauma would kill any lesser man. )

He doesn’t say that, of course. Instead, just — hesitantly puts a hand to MacCready’s back. Carefully. Enough that MacCready can move away if he so wished. But MacCready doesn’t, and Danse splays his fingers out, palm feeling every sharp bump of MacCready’s spine. The trembling of his skin, the knot of muscle. Danse can’t imagine the amount of meals MacCready has missed in his lifetime. How many meals he’s intentionally skimped on, in order to save caps for family. How many bitten insults MacCready had shouldered, without ever mentioning his own burdens. (Danse is, abruptly, ashamed of himself. Just a little bit.)

Danse picks his words, carefully. Unsure of himself, more than he is afraid of hurting MacCready. “Can you... I’d like to know more about your son. If that is alright.”

Danse leaves it there. If MacCready doesn’t answer, or shakes him off, Danse will give him space. Leave the room to MacCready, even if Danse will have to sleep in the mess hall, or wander sleeplessly outside for the rest of tonight. He has nothing on his schedule for tomorrow, he could afford to. But if MacCready answers, if he responds —

"His name’s Duncan,” MacCready says, abruptly, voice low and cracked at the edges. Tears still going down sharp cheeks, eyes still staring at nothing. Expression, blasted, even though Danse can feel the fondness hiding between the words, bittersweet. “ Got my eyes. His mom’s hair. Loved — loves, the colour orange. Loves Grognak more than he loves me. Loved weaving around the mutfruit plants. Used to — I used to keep time, back when this stupid watch worked. He kept trying to beat his own record. Jumped over all the pumpkins. Said he could jump over me someday.”

Danse tries to imagine it in his head. A smaller, even more fragile MacCready, with sky blue eyes and hair Danse can’t quite picture, jumping around a vegetable patch. It makes Danse smile. It makes Danse hurt.

“He sounds like an outstanding child.” Danse says, voice pitched just as low. Starts rubbing MacCready’s back, slowly, like Haylen once did to him when he’d caught a terrible stomach bug that laid him low for two weeks.

“Yeah. He — he really is.” MacCready smiles again, just as shaky, but a little more genuine. “Best kid I could’ve ever asked for.”

Danse nods. Keeps rubbing. “When did you know that he was — “ Danse pauses, wrinkles his nose.  _Dying_  seems far too harsh. Feels far too much like a confirmation. “... That he’s unwell?”

He keeps rubbing MacCready’s back, gentle. The more he does it, the more the strength seems to leave MacCready’s body. It slumps, looking painfully defeated, and Danse finds his heart in his mouth. 

“I don’t... I don’t remember exactly when. Couple of years after lucy died. Just knew that one day, he was out in fields behind our farm. Out playing. And the next, he wakes up with a fever. Blue boils start popping up on his body. Throws up everything he eats, can’t even take water, he couldn’t even walk when I saw him last, could barely breathe on his own — “ MacCready’s voice cracks into pieces, breaks apart midway. Forces MacCready to stop, inhale, deep and sharp and shaky, more tears streaming down, his expression looking so broken and  _exhausted_  that even Danse can feel it. An ache, somewhere deep in his bones.

“... So I came here. Looking for a paycheck, no matter the job. It’s not — it’s not cheap, you know? All the sh — stuff he needs. Paying the doctor to come see him every week. The ointment for his boils so he doesn’t cry everytime he moves, medicine to keep his food down, to — to make sure my kid can  _sleep_  at night without being in pain. Making sure Princess and Joseph have enough to feed themselves while they take care of him, making sure the caravans get to him — and I don’t know if it’s enough. I don’t know if _any_ of it’s enough.” MacCready says. Shrugs, a forced nonchalance painful to see in stark contrast with the tears still coming down his face in rivers, the corners of his mouth quaking with sadness. “My kid’s dying, and I can’t do f — fuckin’  _shit_  about it. My kid’s dying, my only source of some goddamn miracle cure is dead somewhere, and I’m —  _fuck_!!”

The last word, shouted and bit into the air as MacCready finally crumbles on himself. Crumples, hunched over, the heels of his palms pressed into his eyes in a futile attempt to stop the crying. Danse can feel it — the tremors under MacCready’s skin, the rattle of heaving lungs and wet sobs and Danse can feel his own heart, somewhere deep in his own chest, breaking with the sound.

A part of him is ashamed. For not knowing — for being so judgmental, for not giving MacCready a little more  _compassion_  before. Of course, MacCready never told him, and Danse  _has_  been trying harder over the past month or so —

He wishes he were better all the same. Wishes he knew sooner. Wishes he knew how to  _deal_  with this. _Haylen_  is good at dealing with these things. Cade is even better. Even ingram is better at this, knows ways of lowering her voice to soothing tones no one would think her capable of when she wants to.  _Teagan_  is a better source of rational comfort than Danse. Danse only knows duty, knows the Codex by heart, knows right and wrong and glory and steel and —

And.

And maybe that’s all he can offer right now.

When MacCready’s sobs die down to something quieter, something a little less heavy, Danse’s hand still on his back, he tries something. “You mentioned a cure?”

MacCready nods, almost imperceptibly, sniffling wetly and wiping his hands on his shirt, eyes looking wearily at the sheets. “Met a guy awhile ago. Sinclair. Said his buddy caught the same disease as Duncan, ‘nd they found some sort of... Pre-war miracle cure or something in this place called, um. Med-Tek research.” MacCready shrugs. “The guy died before they got a chance to go in, and Sinclair just gave me the lockdown codes before he just... Disappeared. It seems too good to be true. And I was right. I tried to go there once but it’s — it’s just. Full of  _ferals_. How — how could the cure be in a place like that? They nearly ripped me apart; some tiny cure in a glass vial can’t last there. It can’t. And I,  _I_  can’t — “

“But I can,” Danse interrupts, and almost shrinks under the way MacCready suddenly looks at him from the corner of his vision, eyes wide in disbelief. He steels himself, and continues. “I’ve seen plenty of pre-war facilities with ferals with intact items, no matter the fragility. And research facilities — they tend to be extremely secure with their experimentations. It’s... very likely that there  _could_  be a cure. There is certainly no harm in trying.”

“You’re not. You’re not shitting me, right?” MacCready asks, tone accusing, almost —  _hopeful_ , somewhere deeper still. Staring at Danse, brows furrowed. “If, if this is some kinda joke, I’m gonna set fire to this f — friggin’ balloon — “

“I’m not joking. It’s — I have my schedule free tomorrow. We could travel there by vertibird, cut on time. And I could go in there and take care of the ferals while you search.” Danse says, growing more and more sure of his own plan the more he says it aloud. Mission planning — _this_ , he can do. “If supermutants couldn’t harm me in power armour, I doubt feral ghouls with decaying limbs would stand a chance. As long as I carry Rad-X with me, I should be more than fine.”

MacCready keeps looking at him, eyes still wide, the sky still in them. It makes a familiar heat rush to Danse’s face, one that’s harder to hide in his present state, but he stays in his position. Meets MacCready’s eyes head on.

“Why would you do that for me?” MacCready finally asks, and Danse’s mind pauses. Struggles to find the right answer.

_Because I hate to see you like this. Because I should have known better, should have treated you better. Because there’s more to you, I know, behind that cocky act you play around everyone, and I want to see more of it. Because I care._

Reasons. Valid reasons. All selfish, though, and so Danse says instead,

“Because it’s the right thing to do.” And means it.

Danse keeps his gaze steely and strong, determined, even as the warmth trickles down his spine, up his neck, burns his ears. Even as fresh tears come unbroken to MacCready’s eyes and sends a fresh wave of panic to Danse. Makes him wonder if he’s said the wrong thing again, if he’s overstepped his boundaries —

And then MacCready’s mouth breaks into a grin so hopeful, it’s radiant. Bright enough to power the Commonwealth, Danse could swear, and his heartbeat speeds up, feels sparks light up inside him.

“Well then, looks like I’ll have to head back out and grab some more beers,” MacCready grins, tone wet but  _better_ , “’Cause I’ll drink to that.”

 

* * *

 

 

The morning comes with little affair. It’s hard to tell the time of day from inside the belly of the Prydwen — the lack of windows means there’s no telling if the sun is up, or if it’s raining, or a million other things. But Danse is trained, diligently and forever Brotherhood, so his body wakes him even without the use of an alarm, and he knows from the moment his eyes blearily open that it’s somewhere close to dawn.

Normally, he’d be up and out of bed in a maximum of two minutes. Stretch, rotate shoulders, head to the latrines to take care of himself, come back, drink water, work out for an hour in the sanctuary of his quarters, wash up, get breakfast.

Today, he’s immediately hit with the mild churning in his gut. Nothing major, just a slight discomfort that comes and goes and tells him he had a little too much beer last night, but nothing constituting a hangover. His arms ache. One slung over his own side, draped over his hips beneath the sheets. The other is caught underneath MacCready.

It takes Danse perhaps a second too long before the weight of that realization fully  _slams_  into him, and he finds himself wide-eyed and frozen, his heartbeat abruptly making itself known all the way up in his throat.

A million thoughts come racing to him at once, slamming into him with the grace of speeding deathclaws.  _What did we do_  and  _it’s so warm, he’s so warm_ , and Danse is so,  _so_  careful when he gently lifts the covers. Is only a little terrified when he sees them both fully clothed, MacCready still in his flannel and Danse’s jumpsuit zipped down but tied around his waist and leaving his upper body in a sleeveless undershirt — and he can’t tell if he’s relieved or disappointed in that.

Gently, he lets the covers slip back up to their shoulders, despite the racing of his heart and the panic thrumming in his ears. MacCready doesn’t even have the gall to do the same, still very much asleep. Ash blonde hair, sleep-mussed, his cap lost somewhere to the floor where Danse can see more beer bottles out of the edges of his vision. Arms curled up to his chest as he lies close enough to Danse’s that Danse can feel every breath, warm on his collarbone. Chapped lips lightly parted, eyes closed, lashes almost comically delicate on the sniper’s usually rough face.

MacCready snores a little. Drools even more, and then snuggles deeper, burrows his face into Danse’s chest, and reasonably Danse should not feel so conflicted about the smell of stale beer on him, or the light hint of cigarette smoke curled under, but Danse  _is_. He’s breathless with it. Heady, for some reason or another, has the urge to, to — to lean down and bury his face in MacCready’s hair, mouth against his scalp.

Danse is, very abruptly, hit with the realization, the epiphany, the afterburn of a revelation; he wishes there was a window in the Prydwen, in his quarters specifically. Wants to see MacCready looking like this — open, relaxed, unguarded, comfortable, warm against Danse — but bathed in the fragile light of morning. Wants to see the delicate butter-gold of wasteland dawn on the fawn of MacCready’s skin, dipping every curve, soft shadow in every edge it doesn’t. Danse wants to see it dripping into the small of MacCready’s back. Into the curve of his smile. Reflected in the sky of his eyes like a whole new day.

Even  _right now_ , just like this, even without all that and cast in just the dim of the Prydwen with the lights off — he wants to gather MacCready up in his arms, hold him. Apologize for the way Danse, for the way the  _wasteland_  has treated him. Try to be better. Wants to kiss the unhappiness right off of MacCready’s mouth and make him laugh, wants to provide MacCready with all the things the wasteland has stolen away from him, has deprived him of.

Danse wants  _MacCready._ The revelation takes all the air out of his lungs.

( And as the new day brightens over the horizon,  Danse thinks:  _oh_. )

( He may be, in simpler terms, a little bit fucked. )

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hahahahahahha i have nothing to say except i remember saying once, i think, that id update this soon, and then i disappeared for over half a year OH WELL real life does that and i'm unapologetic, i had to concentrate on my semester and not dying
> 
> this chapter isn't Great there are so many errors and the flow is way off BUT it's done and i'll take it for now
> 
> i'm on [tumblr!](keycchan.tumblr.com)  
> come yell at me to write more fic or like. say hi. every comment and kudos makes me feel all nice and fuzzy inside


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